The Good Samaritan
by SweetMagnolia
Summary: Sacrifices are often made in love. Sometimes they work out with a happy ending, other times wounds are created that modern medicine can't heal. And sometimes, honesty and an unexpected friendshp can be all that the heart needs to heal. McStizzie.
1. Chapter 1

REVISION of chapter 1. . . I gave it a title and I changed a few minor details!

Here is a plot bunny that ran rampant in my mind! I originally intended to have this act as a one shot, but then wonderful reviews came in and I discovered that I am ruled by my artistic ego! And also, Mark AND Izzie have taken over my mind and demand that I write this story. So, I must give in or lose my sanity.

A special thanks to Andrea…you know how vital you are to my writing!

Thanks for all of the reviews! Keep them coming!

ABC and Shonda own Grey's and Mark and Izzie…it's quite depressing actually.

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_Chapter 1: Snowflakes and Lamp Posts_

She was sitting alone, outside, on a bench made out of wrought iron. The temperature was below freezing, give or take a few degrees, and the thin blue scrubs she had worn for the last thirteen hours were growing damp due to the falling snow. But her senses seemed to have flat-lined into nothingness leaving her unaware of the shivering of her body.

He had stood there watching her silently for a few minutes, with his duffle bag over his shoulder and heavy wool coat wrapped tightly around his body acting as armor against the cold. He had just finished a long and tiring day and was ready to find a comfortable bar stool, and have a heady glass of bourbon (and perhaps a warm female companion for the night as well.) But he had stopped in his tracks when he had looked out through the large glass windows of the hospital lobby and saw her, silhouetted by the glow of from a lamp post.

He had no clue how long she had been sitting out in the winter weather, alone, in nothing but scrubs for warmth, but he had a sinking suspicion she was fast becoming a prime candidate for developing hypothermia if she didn't snap out of it. Figuring he was due for his "good deed" of the month, he made his way though the sliding doors, and over to the intern.

"Dr. Stevens."

He looked at her, seeing only the top of her head, her face hidden from his view. Her body was tense with shivering and he looked at her hands, gripping the bench tightly, tinted with a purplish red from the cold and knuckles white from suppressed emotion.

Suddenly, he had a sinking suspicion that his strong bourbon and future bed companion would have to wait.

Clearing his throat, he called her name more forcefully. "Dr. Stevens." When no acknowledgement came, he grasped her shoulder and bent down to level his face with hers. "Dr. Stevens!"

"I heard you the first time, Dr. Sloan."

He returned to his originally position, not bothering to hide the annoyance on his face. "Really? You could have fooled me. I was beginning to wonder if I needed to get the psych team out here." He folded his arms across his chest, peering at the woman before him. "You should go inside, Stevens. Only a fool would sit out here in nothing but scrubs."

Her eyes never wavered from the ground before her. She seemed intent on ignoring him and her lack of response further ignited his irritation. He did not like the idea of being so easily dismissed.

"You do know that it is twenty-nine degrees with a wind chill of seventeen. Why don't you go inside and save your hands from frost bite? Oh, that's right . . . I heard talk that you don't mind taking chances with you surgical career. But if you lose your hands…you really won't have a chance at being a surgeon then."

Her blue eyes flew to his. The old cliché of "if looks could kill" leapt to his mind, knowing that if it had indeed rang true, he would be lying on a gurney being rushed into the ER.

He watched as she mentally controlled her temper, impressed at her ability to do so. Despite having been at Seattle Grace for a short time, he had been able to get a good read on all of the personalities of the doctors and interns at the hospital. And he knew from gossip and his own keen observations that Doctor Isobel Stevens, in particular, was ruled more by emotion than a cool rationality and distance.

"That was a low blow, even for a worm like you."

His eyebrow went up at that. "It seemed to have worked." Sitting down on the cold bench, he put his duffle bag on his lap, opened it, and began rummaging through it. He felt her curious gaze slide towards him and ignored it looking for a particular item. When he found it, located at the bottom of his bag under three pairs of dirty scrubs, and two pairs of tennis shoes, he looked at her triumphantly.

"Here, take this and put it on." He said to her as he held out his black polar fleece. He rolled his eyes as she scrunched her nose in disgust. Two could play at that game, he decided.

"If you don't put it on, I will put it on you myself…and don't be surprised if I try to cop a feel or two." He lowered his brows, expecting a challenge.

Her head turned sharply at him. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, really? You wanna find out?"

Cool blue clashed against warm brown, in a battle of glares, neither party giving an inch. Silent moments and puffs of air were all that passed between them in their battle of wills.

"Fine…have it your way." He smirked at her as he unfolded the fleece, turning towards her.

"I can do it myself," she snapped as she grabbed the fleece from his hands. Yanking it over her head, she roughly shoved her arms in the sleeves. Turning again into her previous position, she asked with disdain, "Are you happy now, Dr. Sloane?"

"Exceedingly so." He kept his eyes on her as he returned his hand to his pockets and leaned his back against the bench.

"It smells bad."

"It hasn't been washed in over a month. What do you expect?"

"Ugh!"

Silence over came both of them once more.

"Don't you have a hot date with a silicone Barbie or something to get to?"

He cut his eyes towards her, chuckling at the aggravation in her voice.

"Nope."

He felt her twitching movements vibrate through the bench and smirked once more.

"Aren't you cold?"

"Aren't you?"

Silence met silence.

He watched her as she hid her hands in the much to long sleeves, covering them for warmth. Her legs were starting to bounce in irritation and her brow furrowed.

"You can leave now."

"Yup."

"Then go."

"I could."

"Well, why don't you?"

"Misery loves company."

"I'm not miserable."

"Of course, you aren't."

Her eyes shot to him, pursing her lips together. He acted like he didn't notice her scrutinizing glare, as he gazed down at his Italian loafers. "Are you enjoying the view? I've heard that the ladies of this hospital enjoy looking at it. What is it Grey said people call me? Ah, yes. 'McSteamy'…" He turned to look at her, a smirk on his face. "Do you call me McSteamy, Stevens?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't like you."

"I'm wounded, believe me."

She turned back around, more annoyed than before. He didn't know why he didn't just get up and leave, now that he had given her his fleece. The reckless intern at least had some protection from the night's cold thanks to his generosity. His good deed was done. He had offered warmth to the needy and he could officially say he was a 'Good Samaritan.' Yet . . . he stayed.

And so did she.

He couldn't deny the fact that he was a little baffled. He knew that she didn't particularly care for him, as she had so clearly stated just moments before. He liked pushing her buttons and watching her push back. She was very amusing when annoyed.

"Why don't you just leave already?" She asked exasperation in her voice.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I bothering you, darling?"

"Don't call me 'darling'!"

"Whatever you want, sweetness."

He knew he had pushed her "press at your own risk" button when she slammed her hands against the bench and turned to glare at him, hot breaths of anger escaping her lungs.

"Do you seriously take some kind of sick pleasure in pissing me off!?"

He sat back and looked at her innocently. "Now, why on earth would you say that?"

"Oh, let me see. I was sitting out here, alone, because I wanted to be_ alone_, and I have dropped many not-so-subtle hints that I want you gone!"

"Why?"

Her brows came together in consternation. She bit out, "Why what?"

"Why, Dr. Stevens, do you want to be alone?"

"Because I…I…" Her words dropped off as movement to her left caught her eye. Watching her turn her head, Mark's gaze followed hers and saw O'Malley and Torres, the newlyweds, walking together hand-in-hand to her car, seemingly oblivious to them sitting on the bench.

Mark's eyes turned back to her and started to chuckle. "You— Stevens, you're in love in with O'Malley!?!"

Disgust crossed over her features and she hit his arm with her fist. "No, you idiot! I am not in love with George."

"Well, then . . . if you're not in love with him, why are you sitting out here about to turn into a block of ice?"

Mumbling, she answered. "It's nothing…I just…"

"I wouldn't say it's nothing judging by the way you glared at the new Mrs. O'Malley." He studied her, trying to figure out the puzzle in front of him. "What's wrong with Callie and George being married? She's a nice girl and—

She shot him a look.

--and I think they're good together." Mark said completely ignoring said look. "If you're not hot for O'Malley…then what's your deal?"

More silence met his question and he waited patiently for her to answer.

"It should have been me." She said it so softly that Mark wasn't sure if she said anything at all.

"What?" He asked leaning towards her. He felt the sudden shift of moods in her and knew in his gut that the ice within her was about to crack. And for some reason unbeknownst to him, he was scared...scared shitless of what he may discover.

Closing her eyes, she ground out, "It should have been me!" She turned to look at him straight in the eye, the browns and golds of her eyes shining against the redness of tears, her face crumbling. Pointing her finger at her chest, she yelled. "It should have been me! Me! I was the one engaged! I was the one that was supposed to get married!"

Mark looked at her in confusion, unsure of how to handle the fragile woman in front of him. "Izzie—

"Don't you see? I should have been the one to get married. He had gotten a new heart! He should have lived. . ." Her sobs were growing louder, shaking her tiny frame with their intensity. "I should've been the one to walk in and shout 'I got married! I'm Dr. Stevens-Duquett!"

She looked at him, her heartbreak clearly showing her in her eyes. "But, I'm not . . . I'm still just Dr. Isobel Stevens . . . and the only ownership I have of his name is spelled out in white letters."

"The clinic?" He asked in a whisper.

She bent over, holding her head in her hands. "That's the only legacy I have of him."

Mark sat there, in stunned silence, listening to her sobs not knowing what to do. He had never been one to deal well with female emotion and the self-confidence in his abilities with women had quickly dissipated in the last five minutes.

Doing the only thing he knew to do, he grabbed Isobel Stevens into his arms, cradling her body with his own, and held her, listening to her tears as the snow fell silently around them.

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_Please review...like, seriously? I'll bake you some muffins!_


	2. Chapter 2

Here is chapter 2. A very special thanks to Andrea, couldn't do it w/o you! And thanks to all who have read and reviewed my story!!

ABC and Shonda own Grey's. Unfortunately.

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Chapter Two: Flowery and Pink

She hated doing laundry. She had put off washing her clothes for over a week and knew she couldn't neglect the dirty job any longer when her clothes started to spill out and over her clothes hamper, creating pools of t-shirts, panties, and socks all over the floor of her bedroom. She knew she could pull a Christina and just go out and buy new panties when she ran out of clean ones, but she didn't like the idea of wearing the brand new and scratchy undergarments until they had been softened with "April Petals," her favorite fabric softener. And knowing she would just have to wash her new panties anyway would just entirely defeat the purpose of her avoiding her laundry duties.

And so she had spent the last five hours of her first day off in a month doing the much hated washing of clothes. She had just finished washing, drying, and folding four loads of laundry and putting them in her basket when she spotted a black shape lying on the floor, next to the corner of the washing machine, stopping her short. Immobilized with an overwhelming feeling of chagrin, she bent down to pick up the fleece, and held it gingerly in her hands.

Her mind immediately revisited the night where she had rather embarrassingly broken down in front of the renowned plastic surgeon known for his talent with a scalpel as well as his good looks and arrogance. She cringed at the memory of exposing her wounds so blatantly in front of him. She had cried, openly and unabashedly, on his shoulder over the fact that George had married and not she. Granted, she didn't really like Callie Torres O'Malley and she felt that George could do much, much better—like find someone with stellar hygienic skills as well as modesty when in the buff. And she had tried to accept his relationship with Callie ( like really, really tried . . . and hard.) But, he loved Callie and she was, unfortunately, a huge part of his life now. And just when she thought she was beginning to accept it, he had made _the announcement. _

She had been shocked and horrified when George had announced his elopement with Torres, but, honestly, she was more shocked and more horrified at her anger and resentment towards her best friend and his new bride. So she ran away from the happy couple and the designated congratulations, into the freezing cold, seeking solace from the toxic mixture of feelings running rampant in her heart and mind. She needed time to be alone and to try to find a way stop herself from spontaneous combustion.

And then he showed becoming the oxygen to the ever growing flames of emotion. When some semblance of rationality had finally washed over her, she had bristled with awareness. It didn't escape her notice that both of her hands had tightly gripped the lapels of his coat, or that both of his arms had circled her body holding her against him and that her head was fitted in the crook of his shoulder with her wet tears grazing the skin of his neck. Her mortification had hit her like a ton of bricks.

Tearing herself out of his arms, she stood up wrapped in a fleece that smelled of masculinity and dirty socks, and avoided looking him in the eye. With as much dignity as she could muster, she had walked quickly away and didn't even turn around with a glance to look at the man left behind.

With frustration, she yanked open the lid of the washer and threw in the offensive garment. She added detergent and grabbing her fabric softener, she poured more than double of "April Petals" into her Downy ball. Closing the lid, and selecting the spin cycle, she smiled. She had finally gotten rid of the stench of Mark Sloane.

_The Next Day_

"O'Malley, you're with Burke, Yang and Grey you're with me at the clinic and will work in shifts between myself and Dr. Montgomery . . ." Bailey paused to look down at her file, leaving Izzie biting her lower lip. "Karev, you are with Torres, and Stevens—

She held her breath, preparing her mind for a day filled with nerves and inward humiliation. It had been exactly one day since she had seen Mark Sloane and she was dreading the encounter that she knew was bound to happen. Her pride was still stung over the knowledge that he saw her at one of her lowest lows and she wondered how she would ever be able to look him in the eye again. No, she decided, she would never let him know her discomfiture. She had made up her mind right then and there that if she was assigned to Sloane she would be the picture of calm, grace, and dexterity. She would act as if nothing had happened, as if that it had been some other Isobel Stevens he had held crying in his arms.

_-_-You are with Shepard."

_Oh, thank you, God! _Izzie closed her eyes in silent relief that she wouldn't have to play the grand charade and took the chart handed to her.

"All of you, go where you're supposed to go. Yang and Grey, follow me." Izzie watched Bailey march off with Christina and Meredith in tow and was left standing with Alex at her side, watching as well.

"I wonder why Montgomery needs the both of them."

Izzie turned to look at Alex, curiosity in her eyes. "Well, Bailey did say that they both are going to split time between her and the clinic. So, I'm sure that's the reason why. . ."

"No, I worked with her yesterday and split time between Montgomery and the Clinic with no problems." Alex drew his brows together. "I bet she's got a huge case. That's gotta be the reason she needs both of them!"

Izzie watched him in silence, perplexed by his agitation. "What do you care, Karev? You hate the 'vagina squad'…you want to be a big time plastic surgeon, remember?" When he wouldn't make eye contact, it dawned on her. "Oh, my god! I can't believe it . . . you like working in obstetrics! Woah. Hell must have surely frozen over."

He turned to her, annoyed. "Whatever . . ."

"I always did think you looked cute in pink."

Alex sent her a glare and marched off. Izzie watched him not bothering to hide her laughter. She couldn't help but smile when she thought of how much Alex Karev had changed since they all had started.

But then again, they had all changed.

_ Later that Evening_

She was sitting alone on the bench, again. Her shift had been over for the past ten minutes and she was back in her civilian clothes, dressed warmly, with boots, her heavy coat, and hot pink scarf and gloves covering her hands and neck. And in the past ten minutes, she had been silently debating with herself whether or not to stay and act the mature, responsible adult or to simply go home and form an alternate plan. She looked down at the folded fleece in her lap, staring at as if she were fully expecting the garment to offer her advice on the current predicament she had found herself in. _Ok, Stevens, you have really got to snap out of it. Just give him the fleece with a short but polite "thank you." That's all it takes. It's no big deal. Just say: "Thank you, Dr. Sloane for lending me your fleece," and turn around and walk away. No overly long speeches or apologies . . . just a simple sentence. That's all. In fact, maybe you should make him a basket of muffins, no scones…he likes blue berry scones...and then just put the fleece with the baked goods and—_

"Oh, God. Please tell me we are not going to have a repeat performance of the other night."

Izzie's head shot up to find a familiar black wool coat covering tan slacks, and judging by the pointed collar peeking out, a light blue button down. She stood up and looked at him, her rehearsed speech and alternative plans quickly flying out of her head. She opened her mouth but shut it again, discovering all speech had left her.

"Cat got your tongue, Stevens?"

She cleared her throat. "Um . . . no. I, just. . . I was waiting for you—

"Oh, you were waiting for me?" A slow grin formed on his lips, one side higher than the other. "Well, why don't we head on over to Joe's and we can—

Her eyes narrowed and suddenly her tongue returned to normal, working order. "In your dreams."

"Well, actually we would be somewhere else in my dreams. Preferably a large, soft, and bouncy—

Izzie promptly cut him off. "You are such a pig."

"Is that the worst you can call me?"

"Actually, I'm thinking of much more descriptive terms to describe the low life you are, but, if I said them aloud I have a feeling I would be stuck doing scut again for the next three months."

Mark leaned in closer to her, his eyes roaming over her suggestively. "I like a woman with a filthy mouth."

Growing more annoyed by the second with her superior, Izzie slammed the fleece against his chest. "I believe that belongs to you."

"Ah, yes, my fleece. I was beginning to think you were keeping it . . . you know, as a memento of me." He held it in his hands examining it. "Tell me, Stevens . . .did you sleep in it, dreaming of me? You know, since I was your knight in shining armor rescuing the damsel from freezing to death."

She looked at him while mentally counting to ten. He really was an ass. She watched as he slowly lifted it to his nose and watched his face turn to disgust.

"Good God, Stevens, what in the hell is that smell?"

"What are you talking about?"

He held it out to her face so she could get a whiff. "That! What is that awful smell all over my fleece?"

Izzie couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. "That is the smell of clean. If you would wash your clothes more often, you would be able to recognize the scent."

"I have my clothes dry cleaned and they never smell like this." He brought it back up to his nose for a better sniff. "It. . . smells all flowery and . . .pink!" He looked at her in repulsion. "It smells like you!"

"It's 'April Petals', my fabric softener." She looked at him with a satisfied smirk gracing her lips. "And I think it smells wonderful. Actually, I've been told I smell 'delectable' by members of your sex."

"You're female."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. I was wondering what these things on my chest were."

This time, his eyes narrowed at her. "While you may smell '_delectable_,' Dr. Stevens, I prefer to smell manly and not all wimpy and . . ." he uttered the last word with revulsion, "_botanical."_

"So, you agree?"

"Agree with what?"

"That I smell delectable?"

Only a grunt was given as an answer.

Biting her lip to keep a smile from spreading over her face, Izzie bent down to pick up her large tote bag. Standing back up, she looked at him standing there with his hands in his pockets watching her. And suddenly realized that she owed him much more than simply returning a clean fleece to its rightful owner.

Aware of the soft silence that had grown between them, his eyes met hers with a questioning gaze.

"I wasn't only waiting for you so that I could give you the fleece." She watched him as he realized what she was referring too. He became uncomfortable and started to shift his weight. "I . . . I wanted to tell you th—

He cut her off, his gaze not meeting hers. "Don't. You don't have to."

"No. I do. You really helped me and . . ."

"Izzie, please . . . it's not necessary."

She was stunned when she realized that the oh-so-suave and self-assured man before her had become quite distressed and unnerved at her attempts to thank him for what he did for her. The slight blush on the chiseled cheeks could not be hidden by the shadows and Izzie was starting to discover that there was much, much more to Mark Sloane than met the eye. She took a step forward and touched his arm gently with her hand. Surprised by her touch, his eyes flew to hers.

Knowing it was now or never, she spoke. "I never thanked you for what you did that night . . ." Seeing that he was about to open his mouth in protest she rushed on. "I was alone and I was hurting. And you saw that. You didn't have to be . . . there for me, you didn't have to stay. But you did." She stopped and looked at him intensely. "I was in need and you—you gave me what I needed."

Silence passed between them, neither gaze wavering from the other. She reached for his hand and clasped it in her own and watched as his gaze flew to their joined hands. In a soft whisper, she spoke once more.

"Thank you."

Having released the words out into the open, she squeezed his hand before breaking their grasp, her eyes never leaving his gaze. Offering the quiet man a small smile, Izzie turned around and walked away leaving him alone by the bench, covered in the soft glow of the lamp post.

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	3. Chapter 3

Here is chapter 3! Thank you to all who have read and reviewed my story. Hearing your feedback really makes me want to continue writing this story! A BIG, HUGE thank you goes to my special friend, Andrea! You are amazingly talented and your insights, opinions, and ideas truly inspire me! You are my beta buddy and your opinions make my work so much better!

Thanks again, everyone!

The characters belong to Shonda and ABC! The ideas in this story are mine!

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_Chapter 3: Teal Invitations_

He sat in his hotel room going through the untouched mail he had accumulated over the last week and a half. His schedule had been jammed packed with different plastic surgeries and the last thing he had felt like doing was rifling through the different requests from various medical schools asking for him to come and give a lecture, or different conferences begging him to be the main attraction. Quite honestly, he hadn't felt like venturing forth from his hotel room or the safety of the O.R. for the past week since his last "rendezvous" with Addison.

Addison had told him that she didn't need him anymore, that she had found someone new she could rely on . . . herself. She had also told him, in not so many words, that he was a cancer inside of her, killing her slowly. So, she had gone through a round of emotional chemotherapy, and killed the life threatening disease: her relationship with him.

The prognosis and recovery may have left Addison feeling like a new woman, but he had been left feeling nauseated and out of sorts. Normally he would have gone out and gotten drunk and screwed as many women as he possibly could. But this time, he just hadn't felt up to it. So, he needed to have an excuse to his subsequent lack of "man-whoring" over the past week (he was, after all, Mark Sloane) and so, he had kept to himself, absorbing himself in rhinoplasties, liposuctions, and breast augmentations until he was too tired to go anywhere but his hotel room. No one would fault his lack of libido to exhaustion from surgeries and his damage control had left his reputation fully intact and blemish free.

Not that he gave a rat's ass about it anyway.

He had thrown every item of mail away that he deemed unimportant into the stainless steel basket, but stopped when he reached a teal colored envelope, written in silver bubbly letters with his name on it. His curiosity aroused, he tore the seal open, and pulled out the card stock decorated in browns, pinks, and teal and read it's information, and. . . laughed. Looking at his watch, he put down the envelope and went and got into the shower.

He had found a desire to go out after all.

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Loud music mixed with laughter greeted him the moment he opened the door of his German import and stepped foot onto the snow dusted sidewalk. Pulling his leather jacket tighter against his body, he made his way towards the flickering neon lights of the Emerald City Bar and opened the door to walk into the warmth of celebration.

The sight that greeted him shocked him into stillness. Shots of tequila were being slammed downed throats, as well as ones of whiskey and other alcoholic concoctions. Beers were being chugged and there was even a keg stand involving a young woman with her legs in the air, each held by two men. He passed by a couple strongly resembling the O'Malleys in a dark corner getting a little frisky for public decency. He promptly tore his gaze from the pair, only to find that across the room Christina Yang was giving Preston Burke, the most renowned cardiothoracic surgeon in the country, a lap dance.

He had to admit it. Izzie Stevens could throw one hell of a party.

Mark's eyes roamed the bar looking for more familiar faces. He saw other interns, residents, and even a few nurses at this little shin dig Stevens was hosting. Most were people he had never bothered learning the names of and he didn't really care to know. He spotted Derek with a fellow dirty mistress (well, ex-dirty mistress since Meredith had presently left the club to become a respectable girlfriend.) They were sitting together at a table, eyes glued to one another as well as their hands. _Traitor._

To keep himself from gagging, he turned his head to the left and his eyes landed on familiar red hair, pulled back into a loose pony tail, hanging loosely over her shoulder. She was wearing a soft blue sweater that made her soft ivory skin glow, making her look radiant. She was casual and elegant, a combination that was distinctly Addison and one he that had always admired. Her face was lit with laughter and her eyes were sparkling. He hadn't seen her like that in months. His eyes slid to the figure that was the recipient of those laughing looks…Alex Karev.

He closed his eyes briefly, trying to control the constricting feeling in his chest. It felt as if the air was being choked out of him. Just what in the hell was she doing with Karev?

He decided that he needed a drink and made a bee line to the bar. Annoyed with the lack of instant service, he slammed his fist against the bar and yelled out, "Who in the hell do I have to screw to get a beer around here?"

"You know they say patience is a virtue."

His eyes slid towards the voice that magically appeared. "Stevens."

"Sloane."

She stood next to him, her blonde curls loose about her face, dressed in a black top decorated in lace and frills paired with dark denim jeans, and perched her elbows on the counter, with a large margarita in hand. He felt her gaze rest on him and he didn't bother hiding his annoyance.

"What are you looking at, Stevens?"

"Tsk. Tsk. You're in a bad mood tonight. Now I wonder what's got your briefs in a wad?"

"I don't wear briefs and it's none of your business." His eyes slid once more back to the red head and the whelp, not really caring if the woman next to him noticed or not.

Her eyes followed his to find Dr. Montgomery and Alex nestled in a corner. Looking between the couple and the man next to her, she realized just exactly what had gotten him riled up.

"Jealousy is a bitch, isn't it?"

"I'm not jealous."

"Ha."

"I'm not. Why would I be jealous?"

"Well, let's see. Maybe because Alex is currently sitting by the woman you left everything in New York for? And also the fact that she hasn't even noticed your presence since you walked in the door?"

He kept silent. Maybe if he didn't talk to her she would just go away. God, she really was annoying.

"So you're going to ignore me now?"

Silence.

"Ok, go ahead. Ignore me." She sat down on the stool and made herself comfortable. "You can ignore me all you want. But you can't ignore the fact that Addison is currently eye sexing Alex."

He made a noise low in his throat, annoyed at her for pointing out the obvious.

She looked at him in surprise. "Oh, my God! Did you actually just growl?"

"For the love of God, can I get a fucking beer!?" Mark yelled at the helpless bartender and watched as he went off to do his bidding. Stevens was pushing his last nerve and he needed alcohol in his system and he needed it now or he had a feeling he might strangle the blonde sitting next to him.

"You know alcohol won't change anything," she said as she took a rather large sip of her lime margarita through a straw.

He scoffed. "Hypocrite."

"Excuse me?"

"Hypocrite." He turned to her itching for a fight. "You, Stevens, are a hypocrite."

"Oh, really? How, exactly, am I a hypocrite?"

Grabbing his newly arrived beer, he took a swig from it, enjoying the fact that he was pissing off Isobel Stevens. "Well, let me see. Today I was going through my mail and I saw this uniquely colored envelope with my name written on it." He propped his hip against the counter, leaning in closer to her. "And when I opened it, what did I discover? An invitation to a party celebrating the marriage of George and Callie O'Malley as well as the engagement of Burke and Yang. And, oh my word, it had you listed as the hostess!"

Her eyes narrowed. "What's your point?"

He felt satisfaction that he was getting her riled up. It was nice having someone as pissed off as he was at the moment. "You, my dear Isobel, hate Callie and the fact that she's married to George O'Malley."

He could see her grinding her teeth as she tried to control her temper.

"Ok, first of all, you're right. I don't really like Callie and I don't really like the fact that she's married to George. _As you well know,_" she hissed through her teeth. He found it interesting that she remembered that little tid bit of her confession from that night on the bench. "And second of all, he's my best friend and Christina is also one of my good friends. And I like Burke. He makes a killer turkey." She sat back and crossed her arms. "And third of all, I'm_ nice_. I threw this party to support my friends . . . because I am nice!"

"Even when it's killing you inside?"

Her eyes cut to him. She could lie, but what would be the use? He already knew the truth. "Yes."

Hey honesty took the wind out of his sails a little bit. How could he argue with that when she had used the truth as a weapon?

They sat again in silence, each nursing their own drink.

She turned to him with a look of determination in her eye. "Ok, truth time."

"Truth time?"

"Yes. It's a time where you and I speak the truth."

"Why am I suddenly terrified?"

She ignored his previous statement and marched right on. "You know, you're really not that terrible."

He looked at her insulted. "Excuse me?"

"You act all cocky and confident, like nothing can get through to you. And most of the time you're an ass—

—you're doing so much for my self-esteem right now," he bit out sarcastically.

She rolled her eyes and continued; her face set in determination. "But the fact of the matter is that you aren't!"

"What? An ass?"

"No, you are most definitely an ass..."

He looked at her closely. She wasn't making any sense. "How many margaritas have you had, Stevens?"

"About 2…no 3…"

"That explains it. You're drunk, wasted. An absolute lush."

"Ok, I may be a little tipsy, but I am not a 'lush.' And quit trying to distract me!"

"I'm distracting you?"

"Yes, you are…you are trying to distract me to keep me from calling you out on your crap."

"My crap?"

"Yes, your—why do you keep repeating everything I say with a question?"

He put on a look of stunned innocence. "I'm repeating everything you say with a question?"

"Oh, my God, you are so aggravating!"

"I've been told that before."

"See! That's it!" She said triumphant.

"What is _'it'_?"

"You are underestimated!"

His eyebrows shot up at that statement. "How am I underestimated?" He asked, curious as to whether Izzie had been telling the truth about how many drinks she'd had.

"You, Mark Sloane, feel more deeply than you let on and you fully expect people to think the worst of you. You have this beautiful veneer of handsome looks and confidence, but deep inside, you are absolutely terrified of being alone."

Suddenly he wished he had ordered a much stronger drink.

"And that's why you keep trying to hold onto Addison. You're afraid that if you let her go, you'll have no one, absolutely no one. And that's why you came out here, to Seattle."

"I came out here because I love her and I want to be with her." He was annoyed with her and even more annoyed at himself for trying to explain his motives to her. Why didn't he just get up and leave the rambling, drunk woman to herself?

"I don't doubt that. How long have you been out here? 6 months?" Izzie sat up to look over his shoulder and then looked back at him. "And yet here you are, with me, while she's over there with another man."

Mark fought the urge not to look back behind his shoulder and he fought harder not to release all of his venom out at her. She was once again speaking the truth, a truth that he hadn't wanted to admit even to himself.

"You gave her a chance to choose you when you came out here to fight for her… and instead she chose Derek. And when that didn't work out. . ."

She didn't have to continue on with her sentence for him to know exactly what she meant. When Derek had turned her away, he had stood there ready and waiting for her to choose him, and she had turned him down once again.

"Do you ever think she's going to choose you, Mark?"

His silence answered her question.

"You deserve to be chosen." She said simply, as if it were an absolute truth like "the sky is blue," or "men are from Mars and women are from Venus."

His eyes connected with hers and he didn't bother putting on the usual shield protecting his emotions. He knew with her it would be useless. He had the distinct feeling that she saw right through him, even in her current inebriated state. It was crazy how the blond intern could read him like a book, right down to what was written between the lines. And that feeling had left him feeling quite exposed and he didn't like it one bit. It was as if there was an unwarranted claim on the both of them, stating that since they had both exposed their vulnerabilities to one another, albeit somewhat unwillingly, they were left to hold one another accountable, no holds barred. He had a suspicion that she would undoubtedly become the proverbial thorn in his side.

He knew he should have left her alone sitting on that damned bench in the freezing cold.

He decided it was time to turn the tables on her. "And what about you, Isobel Stevens?"

"What about me?"

"When do you think you're going to open yourself up for love again?"

"I don't know, Mark, I don't know if I will ever be able to again. Or if I would even want to."

There it was again. That simplistic truth of hers, another blunt statement with all of the trimmings of bull shit tossed to the side. He had come to realize one thing about Izzie Stevens, she was honest to a fault. As he took another swallow of his beer, he couldn't help but acknowledge that he felt the same way about love and taking chances. He inclined his head to the right and studied her, sitting there with her legs crossed, idly swirling her straw in the frozen beverage, and decided that their conversation needed a change of pace. "That doesn't include sex does it?"

She let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, God, I hope not! I'll have to feed the beast sometime or another."

"The beast?" He said with a smile on his lips.

"Oh, yeah, the beast. And right now, she's in hibernation."

"Hibernation? So, some time the beast will re-awaken with a hunger that will be in need of satisfaction?" He shook his head at her. Isobel Stevens was definitely unique. "Well, I have a feeling that a chaste life wouldn't really suit you well, Stevens."

"What? Are you saying I wouldn't make a good nun?" She turned to him indignant. "I happen to think I would make an excellent bride of Christ!"

"Hah. I wonder how the sisters would feel about having former 'Bethany Whispers' sitting next to them at vespers? I don't think that would be well received by the good sisters."

"Hey!" Mark laughed when she punched him in the arm causing her to spill the rest of her margarita down her shirt.

"Look what you made me do!" She said frantically reaching for some paper napkins.

"Here, let me help you!" Mark said sweetly, napkins in hand as he reached to blot the wet area on her chest.

Izzie swatted his hand away. "Oh, please. You're just trying to feel my boobs!"

Mark threw a grin her way. "Can't blame a man for trying, can you? You've got a good rack!"

Izzie stopped blotting and looked at him disgusted. "You are such a mongrel."

"Oh, come on, Stevens! I'm a plastic surgeon. I happen to look at breasts all day." He took another sip from his beer, a smirk gracing his lips. "And while you do have a very nice pair, they're nothing extraordinary." He grinned inwardly as he mentally counted while waiting for her response. He loved getting her riled up. She was just so much damn fun to aggravate. _One . . . two . . . three—_

"I have fabulous breasts, thank you!"

Less than three seconds. Impressive.

"And I'll have you know, that men love my breasts! In fact, I catch at least six men an hour blatantly staring at my chest. And when a man gets to see them in the flesh . . . I'll just say he looses all semblance of speech and thought."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

"Prove it. Show them to me, so I can decide on my own."

"Ha! I am so on to you, mister."

"Believe me honey, if you were on me, you'd be singing, no, _moaning _a much different tune right now." His smug grin grew.

"You are so pathetic." The smile on her face lessened the sting of her words. She leaned closer to him, crossing her arms on the bar, framing her décolletage. His eyes couldn't help but travel to the focal point she was setting up so nicely. "If you want to see the girls, you're going to have to persuade me."

Oh, she had definitely had more than three margaritas and he had decided that he liked a drunken Izzie Stevens. He leaned into her, fully aware of the game she was playing. "I can be very persuasive when it comes to getting something I want. You sure you want to enter into that game, Stevens?"

"I think I could handle you."

He noticed that both of their arms were touching and that she hadn't shied away from his touch. "You sound pretty confident in yourself."

Izzie stood up and moved her body closer to his, her eyes looking straight ahead, as she leaned into him. His senses prickled to life as he felt her warm breath against his ear. "But the question is . . . can you handle me?"

And before he knew what she was doing, she pushed her body against his and grabbed his face in between her hands, pulling his lips towards her own.

The kiss was as intense as it was brief. He could tell that Izzie Stevens didn't do anything half-way. She pulled away from him, wearing a feline smile on her face, and ran her finger along his jaw, setting his senses on fire.

"Oh, yeah. I can definitely handle you, no problem." She said softly before turning to leave him, sitting alone, at the bar.

Letting out a slow breath with the taste of lime and salt still on his lips, he turned to watch her walk away, admiring the sway of her hips fully on display thanks to fitted denim and high heels. Isobel Stevens was anything but predictable and he found that he liked that aspect of her personality very, very much.

He didn't bother hiding the huge grin from his lips, especially when he noticed Addison watching him from across the room. He couldn't deny the brief satisfaction in knowing that she had witnessed the kiss Stevens had planted on him. It had been hot. Hell, she was hot and he could still feel the warmth of her curves against him. And she was right . . . she did smell 'delectable.'

He stood, chuckling to himself, as he grabbed a twenty from his wallet and threw it on the counter, leaving his money and thoughts of Addison behind him for the night.

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Please review...I love reviews! 


	4. Chapter 4

So, here is chapter 4! I actually wrote it this weekend but wasn't fully satisfied with it. But, seeing all of the WONDERFUL support I've gotten in response to Chapter 3, I was fueled to finish this bad boy! Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading and reviewing! It really, really helps in motivation!

This chapter is somewhat emotionally charged, so beware! And whatever this is developing between Mark and Izzie is going to be slow, so be patient!

And a special thanks to Andrea! R-O-C-K, You Rock, You, Rock!

--SC

All characters belong to ABC and Shonda. Please don't sue. You won't get a dime b/c I am poor.

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Chapter 4: Hangovers and Underdogs

He walked through the doors of the Denny Duquett Memorial Clinic, looking for the sight of familiar blonde curls twisted into a bun held by a plastic tortoiseshell clip. She wore her hair like that every day, the same knot of twisted hair, the same clip. The only variation was whether or not she clipped her bangs back. He had caught wind that she was volunteering at the clinic on her day off, somewhat surprised she would even be able to get out of bed much less be able to help the under-privileged and the under-served. So, he had made the short walk over to the clinic with one steaming hot green tea in hand and a mocha latte in the other. He figured she could use the antioxidants in her system after the previous night of drunken debauchery.

Well, maybe debauchery was a term too strong . . .maybe "antics" would be better suited. Yes, antics, he decided, was a much better word to describe the kiss she had planted on him. And while he had enjoyed the lip lock very much, he knew that she had been drunk while giving the kiss and suspected that perhaps if she had been sober, his face would have more than likely been on the receiving end of a slap rather than a kiss.

His lips spread into a Cheshire grin. He couldn't wait to torture her.

He saw her standing against the counter, absorbed in a stack of files. He took mental note that her bangs were clipped back and that she wore her glasses instead of her contacts (he had a feeling that her eyes were still swollen and bloodshot…_poor thing._) Seeing this as his golden opportunity, he walked quietly towards her.

"GOOD MORNING, DR. STEVENS!"

She jumped, visibly startled by his booming voice, and he watched grinning as her hand speedily went to cradle what he could only guess was her throbbing, aching head.

"Gah, do you have to speak so loudly?" She said, miserably, her eyes clenched shut.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Stevens . . . late night?"

She sent him a scathing look, well, as scathing as her hangover would allow.

"I have to admit, I'm a little surprised to see you up and running this morning. I would think you would still be in bed, curled into a ball, with a waste basket at your side." He leaned in closer to her. "You know, in case you had to throw up."

She groaned from the mental image his words painted for her, her hand going to her stomach.

Sloane chuckled as he placed the hot tea at her elbow. "I figured you could use this."

Izzie eyed the drink suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Green tea, full of antioxidants. Great for hangovers."

"I take it that this knowledge is coming from experience?"

"Absolutely."

Her hand wrapped around the protective cardboard barrier of the cup and brought it to her lips to try out Mark Sloane's recommendation of a hangover cure. Sipping the hot liquid cautiously, she sighed as she felt the warmth trickle down her throat. Her eyes went to Mark's pleased face.

"Thank you, Dr. Sloane."

"Don't mention it."

"Your random act of kindness has surprised me, I'm not going to lie."

He grinned at her. "Yeah, well . . . I like to shock people, especially when they _underestimate _me."

Her eyebrow rose at that and she stared at him with a knowing look. "Oh, so that explains the green tea. You want to know if I remember."

"Remember? Whatever could you be talking about, Stevens?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. One thing he had learned about Izzie Stevens from their conversations in the last few weeks was that whenever he repeated whatever she said with a question she grew very agitated . . . and it usually worked. But, not this morning, she was going to beat him to the punch, it appeared.

"If you're wondering if I remember kissing you, I do." She sat the hot beverage on the counter, turning to fully look at him. "Don't think it means that I want you . . . because I most definitely do not."

The 'McSteamy' grin grew on his face. "Oh, come on, Stevens, don't deny it. It's perfectly natural . . . many women quiver in lust when they look at me."

Izzie snorted in derision. " '_Quiver in lust'_!? More like quiver in disgust."

"Well, you weren't quivering in disgust last night when _you_ kissed _me."_

"Please. Don't let your ego expand over it. It was the tequila."

"So now you're going to blame the alcohol? Typical."

"Tequila makes me friendly . . . very, very friendly and makes me do really friendly things. And besides, I—

Izzie stopped short, biting her lip.

Mark became curious. " '_Besides' _what, Stevens?"

"It's nothing." She avoided his gaze.

"It's gotta be something. You're not looking at me. What is it?"

"Really, I'm telling you, it's not important—

"—It must be if you're not making eye contact with me. You always look me in the eye, even when you should be cowering in fear." He put his coffee on the counter, next to her tea, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Spill it, Stevens."

"Dr. Sloane—

"—Now!"

"I felt sorry for you!" Her eyes grew large in horror as her hand instantly went to cover her mouth.

Her admission of honesty left him reeling . . . and a little more than angered, too. His eyes narrowed as his lips drew into a thin line. "Well, next time you 'feel sorry for me', take your pity somewhere else and shove it!" He said in a strained whisper.

"Wait a second! I didn't mean it the way it came out!" Izzie said clearly panicked by his anger.

"Oh, really. Let me get this straight. You badgered me about how my relationship with Addison didn't quite meet up with your standards and then you proceeded to kiss me, all because you felt sorry for me. Hmm…yes, I believe that sums things up rather nicely." Mark grabbed his coffee and quickly headed for the exit.

The cold blast of air didn't do much to cool his temper. He couldn't believe how pissed she'd just made him. He hadn't fooled himself into thinking that the kiss she'd given him meant anything, to him or to her . He was more worldly than that. And he was completely fine with it . . . he could accept and even understand it. Hell, he'd done far worse when he'd been drunk.

But what he would not accept or understand was a kiss given with the intentions of pity.

_Pity. _The word tasted like acid in his mouth. Mark Sloane was not a man to be pitied and it absolutely infuriated him to think that some ex-lingerie model with a nice rack and a dead fiancé pitied him.

Now that was unacceptable.

"Dr. Sloane! Dr. Sloane, please stop!" Her plea didn't slow him down. He kept on walking.

She ran to catch up with him and grabbed his arm, forcing him to a halt.

"What, Stevens!? You came to offer me more of your pity?"

"No! God, I don't pity you!"

"Woops, my mistake. You feel 'sorry' for me!" He made a turn to leave again, but was stopped when she moved in front of him and put her hand against his chest, blocking him from any movement.

"Mark, stop! Just . . .stop."

He tried to calm his breathing. He didn't like her seeing him this angry . . . it just wasn't him. He liked to keep it cool, to act like he was unaffected, but not this morning; she had gone too far. Her drunkenly admitted opinion of him had been proven correct . . . he actually had feelings and he hated it that Stevens had him so easily pegged. Slipping on the mask of frosty indifference once again, he said, "You've got one minute and then I don't want to see you again today."

He noticed her sharp intake of breath at his words and the tense line of her shoulders. Good. That should put her in her place. She opened her lips and closed them again, apparently stalling. He wasn't going to give her an inch. "You've got forty-seven seconds, Stevens."

She closed her eyes and began talking. "It wasn't that I felt _sorry_ sorry, for you. It's just that when I saw her and I saw him with her—

"So you're saying you kissed me out of jealousy?" That little bit of information didn't soothe his anger any, only sparked it more. His voice lowered to a dangerous pitch. "I'm tired of women thinking they can use me for their underhanded motives . . . as much as I like to fuck, I don't like to be fucked with!"

"No! I wasn't trying to use you to make him jealous!" Izzie's free hand buried itself in her hair in frustration. She removed her hand from his chest and began pacing. "I don't even think of him like that . . . not since Denny. Besides, using people like that is _not my style."_

"Watch it, Isobel." He knew who she had referred to in her last snide remark and he found himself growing angrier by the second.

"I don't know why you defend her!" Izzie muttered to herself quietly.

"Stevens, you are walking a dangerously thin line here. . . you better be careful."

Her eyes met his, an air of defiance surrounding her. "No, you don't scare me!" Her eyes were blazing and her fists clenched together in anger. "What is it about her? She's like Satan and you are her devoted minion! She drags you through hell, and yet you still worship at her feet!"

His voice came out loud and sharp. "I am through with listening to opinions on my life from a lowly intern!" He leaned in towards her not bothering to hide his fury. "Why should I listen to you when you risked _everything _for the man you loved? Can't you realize I've done the same thing as you! You, Izzie, don't get to judge me or give your opinions of my love life . . . " He shrugged her hand off his arm and started to walk away again. She chased after him and grabbed him once more to make him face her.

Jabbing her finger in his chest, she leaned close to him, her voice low and fierce. " Don't you dare compare what happened with Denny to your relationship with Addison. We decided to take that chance together—to risk it all because we loved one another. He and I _both _made that choice and we were completely willing . . ." She continued on with tears spilling down her cheeks. "But you and Addison are a different story. You were willing to give everything up for her . . .and you did. And I hate it because she didn't do the same for you and I know what it feels like to be fucked over with the choices you make, the sacrifices. It hurts like hell . . ." Her voice dropped off and Mark watched as she wiped the tears off of her cheeks with the back of her hands.

He waited silently for her to continue, under the spell of her unbridled honesty, knowing that they'd only scratched the surface of the hurt that was hidden so deep within them.

She let out a sigh, her eyes meeting his tired and broken. "I kissed you because . . . she was sitting there, having a great time, with another man who she had chosen over you. I mean I saw it and you had obviously seen it too. And then you yelled at the bartender and were really mean to him . . . and I—got a little angry at her and the situation, and so when I saw her looking at us, with that quirked eyebrow that has that insanely high arch, as if _you_ shouldn't be talking to _me_, I got pissed . . . .so, I kissed you."

He watched as the warm browns of her eyes were lit with fiery gold flecks as she spoke to him honestly and unapologetically. "And you know what? I'm not sorry! You should have seen the look on her face, because it was seriously worth it."

He watched her as she looked down at the ground, avoiding his heavy gaze, and watched her foot make nervous circles in the snow. "She needs to realize she can't have her cake and eat it, too. I'm not going to let that happen to Alex. . . or to you. Her choices have bruised you enough and no matter how much of a bastard you can be, you don't deserve it."

"Why?" He asked softly, not really sure where his voice had gone to.

Izzie shrugged her shoulders again. "I like to root for the underdog."

He was speechless.

To say that Mark was more than a little stunned by her admission of truths would have been an understatement. Not able to make eye contact with her, he turned his head and looked off into the distance, past the ambulance with sirens blaring and lights flashing, and mulled over what she had just admitted to him. She liked to root for the underdog, and he was said underdog. He, Mark Sloane, the underdog! That would be laughable if it wasn't so damn tragic.

She had chosen a battle that was not her own and had fought for him, fighting for the choices and sacrifices he had made and those unreciprocated. All because she knew what it felt like to have them blow up in your face, leaving wounds full of shrapnel and debris, with no treatment available to fully treat the injury. The only thing you could do was to watch them fester and suffer the pain alone.

He turned to look at her, and suddenly realized that he had discovered something very unexpected in Isobel Stevens. He had found an ally of sorts and a . . . friend?

He wasn't quite sure if what the two shared between them could yet be defined as friendship. Honesty they shared . . . trust? That was an element that was still undiscovered between them. He didn't trust easily, but when he did it was fully and completely, even if he had been deemed as "untrustworthy" in the past. Studying her silently, he felt it would be easy to trust Izzie Stevens. He just didn't know if he wanted to.

But one thing he did know with certainty was that Isobel Stevens, in her own non-traditional and eccentric ways, had defended him when he hadn't known he needed defending.

His eyes gentled as he looked at her, standing there, shivering because she had forgotten to grab her coat in her haste to make things right with him. "Go inside, Izzie. You'll freeze to death," he said in a voice much softer than moments before. "Go drink your green tea."

She raised her eyes still wet with tears to his, full of unspoken questions. "I... but we..."

Lifting his hand to tuck a stray piece of fallen hair behind her ear, he looked at her, taking her in. His hand briefly touched her cheek as he said, "I hope they realize what kind of friend they have in you."

Both stood in silence, each considering the other in front of them, neither saying a word. Her brown eyes, large with a mixture of confusion and surprise met his blue ones full acceptance, neither gaze wavering.

"Dr. Sloane?"

Their gazes broke away from one another, as he turned to find a nurse, standing there looking at him impatiently. "Ah, yes, Susan? Can I help you?"

"Your ten o'clock is here and has been waiting for over thirty minutes. I tried paging you, but you never answered." The nurse's eyes looked at Izzie, not bothering to hide her accusatory glare.

Mark's hands went to his waist and took off his beeper. "No wonder, it's dead. Well, I can't keep Mrs. Charles and her liposuction waiting, now can I?" He walked towards the entrance of the hospital, pausing briefly to look back once more at Izzie Stevens, still rooted in the same spot watching him, before he crossed the threshold, with a hint of a smile gracing his lips.

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_Please review! It's great motivation!_


	5. Chapter 5

Here is chapter 5! A big, huge THANK YOU to all who have reviewed! You really inspire me to continue writing this story! Another huge 'thank you' goes to my dear friend, Andrea! You know how much you help me!

--SC

_Chapter 5: Rap Music and Lucky T-Shirts _

The door banged open, Izzie's hands full of plastic bags that were in serious danger of being torn open by the heavy groceries. Her fingers felt numb due to the plastic digging into her hands and she rushed forward to gently dump the bags on the wooden floors of the foyer. Taking a breath of relief, she shook her hands hoping to send the blood back to them and kicked the door shut with her foot.

She caught her reflection in the rectangular mirror over Meredith's antique chest of drawers and groaned at the sight of her bangs plastered against her forehead and her riot of frizzy curls. She hated the rain. Even after living all of her life in the Pacific Northwest, she hated the constant precipitation and the ruination of many fabulous shoes. She loved shoes.

Grabbing a few bags, she headed back to the kitchen to deposit the eggs, milk, vegetables, and meat in their respected spots in the refrigerator. She had spent a good part of her day running errands and taking her turn at grocery shopping for her and her roommates. Well, actually, for her roommate (singular noun . . . not plural, she reminded herself.) George had presently taken residence somewhere else with his lovely bride. Sighing, she turned around to get the rest of her perishable items.

As soon as she had grabbed the last bag, her phone rang shrilly. Trying to balance the plastic bags on her arm once more, she dug into her purse and grabbed her cell phone. "Hello?" She greeted breathlessly into the phone.

"Do you like basketball, Stevens?"

Her eyebrows shot up in confusion as she made her way into the kitchen and plopped the bags on the counter. She perched her hand on her hip in surprise. "Sloane?"

"You never answered my question."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I like basketball and how did you get my number?"

She heard him chuckle over the line. "I have my ways, Stevens. I'm going to get to the point. You and I are going to the Supersonics and Knicks game tonight—

"No, I don't think so!" Her face scrunched up in indignation.

"So, I'll pick you up at 6:15. . . and look nice. Maybe you could wear those tight jeans that hug your ass so nicely? And a bit of cleavage on display is always nice."

"You are such an…" she bit her tongue as she counted to ten. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Don't get all femi-nazi on me. I'll see you at 6:15, sharp." With that he hung up on her, leaving Izzie speechless.

Her eyes slid to her fingers holding a limp, frizzy curl. Inwardly she groaned, knowing her hair was going to be a major bitch to tame. Looking down at her watch, she noticed that the time was 4:30, leaving her with only an hour and forty-five minutes to get ready. She knew that her hair was going to require a large chunk of that time and after putting the last item in the pantry, she left the kitchen and ran up the stairs, silently cursing Mark Sloane and his last minute invitations.

* * *

Izzie took her time making her way down the stairs as she heard the insistent knocking and ringing of the doorbell. "Hold your horses! I'm coming!" She wiped away her smile as she opened the front door to find Sloane in his signature black leather jacket and jeans, with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face.

"It's 6:18, Stevens. I told you to be ready at 6:15 sharp."

Grabbing her purse and black pea coat, she rolled her eyes as she shut and locked the door. "Three minutes will not make that big of a difference, Sloane."

She turned around to find his eyes roaming over her body. "What?"

"You look comfortable." He said accusingly.

"I am comfortable." She shot back. Izzie looked down at her Seattle Supersonics fitted tee, her favorite pair of jeans, and her well-worn Wallabies. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"What happened to you showing cleavage and wearing ass-hugging jeans with four inch stilettos?"

Izzie narrowed her eyes at him. "This is my lucky shirt that I wear whenever I watch a Sonics game! I'm not going to run the risk of them losing just so you can blatantly ogle me."

"Go back up and change. Put on a low cut top. You don't need that shirt because my Knicks are gonna wipe the court with your Sonics."

"Like hell they are!" Her eyes met his in challenge.

"Save it, Stevens, you and I both know how this game will end . . ."

She cocked her eyebrow at his choice of words. "Fifty bucks says we beat you by at least by thirty points."

"You're on."

She smiled at him as she walked down the steps and towards his car. Looking over her shoulder she asked, "How did you know where I lived?"

"Again, Stevens, I have my ways."

"You smiled and flirted with the girl at HR?" She asked knowingly.

"It worked like a charm!" He said as he passed her, walking to the passenger's side of the car. He opened the door for her, causing Izzie to pause in momentary surprise before she entered the luxury vehicle. As she watched him walk around the car to the driver's side, she knew she had to make a few things clear.

"This is not a date, by the way." She told him as soon as he sat down in the driver's seat.

He looked at her in disbelief. "Of course it's not. This is me taking the only person whose company I can stand in Seattle for at least five minutes to a basketball game. I'm not going to turn down courtside seats given to me by the team's general manager for giving his fiancé 'the best breasts' he'd ever seen." He smirked at her. "No, worries . . . this is not a date, Stevens."

Izzie sat back in the plush leather, satisfied with his answer. "Did he really say that you gave his fiancé "the best breasts he'd ever seen'?" She asked somewhat disgusted.

Mark grinned, as he pulled out onto the street. "What can I say? I've got the eye for perfect breasts."

Izzie snorted. "Just shut up and drive so we don't miss the Sonics kick the Knicks' ass!"

"You're delusional."

"Just tell me that when I'm fifty bucks richer." She said confidently as she laid her head against the head rest and smiled.

* * *

She sat quietly the in the sleek and very expensive Mercedes Benz for a few moments, as Mark merged onto the interstate. Her eyes cut over to him as her fingers drummed a rhythm against her denim clad thighs, not bothering to wipe the smug grin off her face. She heard him let out a resigned sigh as he turned to her, looking expectantly.

"Go, ahead . . . let it out. I know you're dying to."

" 'Dying to' what, Dr. Sloane?" She asked enjoying herself.

He glanced at her in annoyance. "Brag. Go ahead and brag."

Izzie pumped her fists in the air and did a small victory dance as much as her seatbelt would allow. "We won! We won! Woo, woo, we won!" She turned to look at the man who'd taken her to watch the desecration of the New York Knicks by her Seattle Supersonics (not by thirty points, but by fifty-seven, a fact that she would gladly rub in his face!)

Mark was silent and trying very hard to ignore the sudden appearance of a foam-rubber hand being waved in his face.

Izzie laughed in delight. "Oh, Sloane, you are the worst loser . . . almost as bad as Christina." She turned to him and put out a flat palm expectantly. "You know what you have to do now, don't you?"

He cut his eyes to her in annoyance, as he reached back into his pocket for his wallet, keeping one hand on the steering wheel. Taking out the fifty-dollars as required by their wager, he put the money, non-too-gently, in her hand. He cringed as he said, "I am embarrassed to say I'm from New York."

She snorted in mirth. "Well, you live in Seattle now, so you should, of course, root for a winning team…like the Seattle Supersonics."

"Never."

"Then you'll be resigned to a life of defeat forever!" Izzie tapped her finger thoughtfully against her chin. "You're not a Giants fan, too are you? Because I believe my Seahawks crushed the Giants' dreams of making it to the Super Bowl. "

Mark let out a loud groan as he turned on the windshield wipers due to the light rain that had started falling. "God, you would be a major sports fan wouldn't you?"

"I am." She said rather proudly. "I love the Seahawks, the Sonics, the Mariners, and only because Seattle doesn't have a hockey team, the Rangers."

Mark turned to her in surprise. "You like the New York Rangers? Holy…am I in an alternate universe?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "No, you're not. It just so happens that my ex-boyfriend plays for the Rangers and since we're still friends . . . I cheer for him."

She chuckled as Mark's eyes grew large and turned to her in excitement. "Your ex-boyfriend plays for the Rangers? Who is he?"

"Hank Lucas." She waited expectantly for the reaction that she knew would come.

"Your…your ex-boyfriend is…Hank Lucas!? You dated the star forward of the Rangers and also the league's leader in scoring?"

"I take it you're a fan of Hank's?" She asked laughingly.

"Well, just…a little." He turned to her with a serious look on his face. "I'm secure enough in my masculinity to say that I have a slight man crush on him."

Izzie laughed openly at that. She had been pleasantly surprised at the evening she had shared with Mark. She had gone to the game with him, not really sure what to expect of the evening except for the usual banter that often bordered the line of sexual harassment and rudeness. Not that it bothered her a bit, because she would retaliate with a cutting line or two in hopes of deflating his huge, male ego. It had become a contest between them, a battle of wills of sorts, with one trying to outdo the other. And she enjoyed it . . .not that she would ever admit it aloud to him. She would never give him the satisfaction, but she held a slight suspicion that he felt the same.

She watched as his long fingers manipulated the click-wheel of his black ipod, trying to find some suitable music for the ride. Inwardly, she was more than a little bit baffled at the 'relationship' she shared with the plastic surgeon. It seemed that over the last few weeks, the two were thrown into one another's path and forced to deal with the dark baggage that accompanied the both of them.

He had surprised her with his acts of comfort when she had felt abandoned and alone to fight the dark emotions of her heart. He had gathered her in his strong arms and let her fight the demons within, fully expecting nothing in return. It was an act of kindness most definitely unexpected from Mark Sloane that had shocked her, and she suspected himself as well.

But what had surprised her even more, despite the sarcasm her lips often spewed his way, was the fierce protectiveness she had developed for him. It had come upon her suddenly and she had never questioned it, just acted. And her action had many reactions: hot tempers, harsh words, fallen tears, and a bond that had been forged between the two of them.

And for the life of her, she couldn't exactly define or label the bond they shared. The only surety she felt was that it was new, uncertain, and very, very fragile. She also couldn't shake the notion that somehow, and for some unknown reason, it was a life-line that they had both grasped onto.

She wouldn't question it, whatever 'it' was, but decided to accept it and let it run its course. Only time would tell.

Suddenly the bass reverberated loudly over the speakers, breaking the short silence.

_This is why I'm Hot, This is why I'm Hot  
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot  
This is why I'm hot, This is why I'm Hot  
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot  
_

She turned to him, shock written all over her face, to find him rapping along with the lyrics. "Oh, my God! You listen to . . . rap music!?"

He turned to her with a grin, still mouthing the words to the chorus. "What? This is my theme song! You seemed shocked, Stevens."

She shook her head in disbelief. "I would have never pegged you as the type that listens to rap."

His voice grew louder as he turned and pointed at her, directly rapping the lyrics to her. "_I'm hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not…This is why, this is why, this is why I'm hot…"_

"Oh, you think you are so 'fly' because you know the words to the M.I.M.S. single . . ."

"I'm very 'fly'. . . and you know it!"

"Please! You are not 'fly.' You just think—

Izzie stopped mid-sentence as she watched a SUV hydroplane over the slick roads of the interstate and flip into the air before finally landing on its hood. "Holy shit! Mark! Did you see that?" She asked in panic.

"Yes, I did! Get out your cell phone and report it!" His eyes started looking in the rearview and side mirrors, as he crossed lanes to pull over.

Izzie dialed 911 and waited for the emergency operator to pick up. "I would like to report a vehicular accident, single car, on I-90 west bound at the 4th Avenue exit. A SUV hydroplaned and flipped in the air, landing on its hood. We've just now pulled up behind the car, and are unsure of how many occupants." She watched Mark as he twisted behind his seat to grab his doctor's bag. "My . . . my friend and I are both doctors. We'll be able to provide some on scene treatment."

Mark got out of the car, doctor's bag in tow, and ran up to the door of the wrecked vehicle. Izzie followed him, her cell phone still pressed against her ear and stood a few feet away.

He looked into the window and turned back to her. "I only see one person! A female, I'd say late twenties, early thirties. She appears to be unconscious."

Izzie relayed the information to the operator as she watched Mark yank open the door, and began working on getting the woman out of the car. It felt like forever to Izzie before he finally managed to get the woman out of the vehicle. Cradling her gently, he took the woman over to his car, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the wrecked automobile.

"I have my wool coat in the back seat, go get if for me, will you?" Mark kneeled down and set the woman carefully on the ground, not fully resting her whole body on the wet pavement. Izzie rushed back to him with the garment and laid it under her body. "It looks as if she has some head trauma, maybe a few cracked ribs, with a chance of some internal bleeding.

"My . . . my . . ." The woman began to speak in soft whispers.

"Mark! She's talking . . . she's becoming conscious." Izzie knelt down on the other side of her.

Mark took off his leather jacket and covered the woman's body for warmth. "I'm Dr. Sloane and this is Dr. Stevens. Ma'am, you were in a car accident. Try to stay calm, the paramedics are on there way."

Izzie saw the woman's eyes go to Mark and lifted her hand to his arm. She struggled taking breaths, seeming determined to be heard. "My . . . baby . . . where's . . . my . . . baby?" The woman slipped into unconsciousness as Mark's eyes met hers in alarm.

"There's a baby?" She asked quietly. Her eyes meet his in worry, finding the emotion mirrored in his own.

"I . . . I didn't see one." Mark got up and started retracing his steps. "Stay with her! I'm going to go look for her baby!"

Izzie watched his retreating form before returning her attention to the woman. Reaching into the doctor bag, she grabbed the stethoscope and began taking her vitals. "Don't worry, ma'am. Dr. Sloane will find your baby," she said confidently. "I know he will."

* * *

_Yes, yes...I know. It's a bit of a cliff hanger. Maybe if you leave a review, you will spur me onto write Chapter 6!?! _


	6. Chapter 6

_Alright folks, here is Chapter 7! Sorry it's taken me a long time to update. I have been sick with the flu and an upper respiratory infection. So, I've been all kinds of sick. I hope you all like this chapter. It doesn't have a lot of dialogue but some important things take place. Quite honestly, it's not my favorite, but, this chapter is needed. I am working diligently on the next chapter which is so far off to a very good start. So, with that said, thank you for hanging in there! Also, this chapter is completely un-beta'd so, all the mistakes are mine! Sorry!_

_--SC_

_I don't own Grey's, only Shonda and ABC have that privilege. _

Chapter 6: Soft Blankets and Hallmark Cards

His heart was beating frantically in his chest as his long legs carried him towards the mound of crushed metal and glass. He dropped to all fours, his body leaning into the vehicle frantically looking for the woman's child. The smell of gas was so strong that it almost over-powered him, causing his body to shake with coughs. He lifted his dark grey t-shirt and put it over his nose to help make breathing easier.

It was dark inside the car save for the faint glow of the map light. He stretched his body as far as he could to look into the back seat. There was no baby seat, only a pale pink blanket, tangled in between two seatbelts. Her baby was a girl. His hand reached for the pink softness and grabbed hold of it, pulling it towards him.

The only proof of this little life's existence was the soft blanket he clutched in his fingers. The smell of gas grew stronger and he knew that he had to get out of the SUV and fast in case of an explosion. Backing his body out, the absence of a windshield caught his eye.

Hurrying out of the vehicle, he stood up and circled the vehicle in hopes of finding something, anything, for a sign. As he stood with his hand on his hips thinking, he evaluated the scene of the accident. He walked towards the guard rail and looked down, his mind beginning to piece the small clues together. The hill had a slight slope and was dark and heavily wooded, but he knew that if the car seat had flown out of the window, its path would have been in this direction.

Carefully holding on to the cold metal of the guard rail, he climbed over and made his way down, slowly so he would not loose his footing on the wet earth. He'd stopped at the foot of the hill, wondering which direction he should go towards when he heard the faint cries to his right. Turning his body in that direction, he walked forward into the thick brush towards the directions of the wails.

He picked up speed as the cries grew stronger, not letting the darkness hinder his efforts.

A pale sliver of moonlight shined down through the trees and onto the car seat, guiding him to his goal. He'd found her! He dropped down on his knees, and lifted the car seat from its side, thankful that it hadn't fallen on its front, and began checking the baby for any injuries.

She was cold, wet, and shivering with only a few scratches from what he could tell in the moonlight, but she was still fully enclosed in the car seat, and for the most part safe and sound. Finally letting out the breath he had been holding, he quickly undid the buckles that strapped her in, and lifted the infant. Cradling her to his chest, he carefully wrapped the infant in the blanket he'd found tangled in the seatbelts of the wrecked car.

He stood there, in the darkness covered by the trees and the soft rain, and just held the little body against his, as his heart slowed its frantic beating. Her wails had softened as his body heat transferred to her. She was safe now. She couldn't have been more than a few months old and judging by the activity of her vocal cords and the ringing of his ears, she appeared to have no head trauma, thankfully.

The sound of approaching sirens caught his attention. He cradled the baby in the crook of his arm as he grabbed the car seat with one hand, and made his way up the hill slowly, to reunite the mother and her child.

* * *

He'd been standing there for the last twenty minutes, watching the little baby sleep in a crib in a small room decorated in a Winnie the Pooh theme on the pediatrics floor. He'd ridden in the ambulance with the injured, unconscious mother and the baby firmly in his grasp to Seattle Grace, while Izzie had followed behind in his car. 

Miranda Bailey had been on call and was there to greet the ambulance when it arrived. He had reported what happened, given her the woman's vitals and injuries, and followed them into the emergency room, still holding the baby who had somehow fallen asleep in his arms, oblivious to the mass chaos surrounding her. The on call resident for pediatrics was there to meet him as well, ready to admit the infant into their service. Her wails were sudden and penetrating, clearly letting everyone in the hospital know that she was unhappy being disturbed in her slumber, only to grow louder when she was taken away from his warm embrace. He stood there helplessly as he watched the pediatric resident and interns place her in a bed and wheel her towards the elevator, her cries never stopping.

He had tried to offer any assistance he could to the mother, but Bailey had assured him that she and Dr. O'Malley had it all under control. She had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn't needed and to go home.

But he couldn't go home, even if Stevens had arrived with his car . . . no, he couldn't return to his hotel room, not just yet. And so he'd found himself in the elevator, pressing the button for the Pediatrics floor, inquiring about the health of the baby girl he'd found thirty feet away from a ditch, covered by the brush.

He was told she was fine and in good health, save for the few minor scratches on her rosy cheeks. He asked to look at her chart, to make sure for himself that the little patient was alright. He had to see it for his own eyes.

He learned that her name was Emma Grace Stanton. He wasn't particularly a religious man, but he couldn't help but think as he stared down at the head covered in dark curls and her body dressed in warm pink flannel, that it had most definitely been grace that saved this child from the accident. She'd been thrown from a car and lived. She was a miracle.

His looked over the chart once more, making sure that she was fine, that nothing had been missed. His eyes focused on one bit of information that he had somehow gone unnoticed by him, causing his eyes to shut briefly in an emotion that he could only describe as pain.

Emma Grace Stanton was born on November 10, 2006.

The same day his own child would have made his entrance into the world.

* * *

Izzie rushed into the ER, anxious to find out about the condition of the woman and her baby. She had tried to hurry as fast as she could, but she'd gotten caught in the traffic created by the accident as well as the down pour that had made the roads dangerous. She knew that she could have followed the ambulance and it's break neck speed, but she didn't want to take any chances with Mark Sloane's beloved car. Besides, it wasn't everyday that she got to drive a car that was worth over $100,000 dollars. She just wished she could have enjoyed it more. 

The first person that she saw was George and she made her way over to him. "George!"

He turned to her surprised and the look of anxiety that briefly flashed in his eyes wasn't lost on her. "Izzie, hey!"

She went up to him, slightly breathless. "Were you here when a woman, early thirties, with a baby came in?"

"Ah, yeah, I was. She's stable but we're running some tests right now. Sloane actually came in with her. He said he witnessed the accident." He looked at her curiously. "How did you know about it?"

Izzie swallowed not sure if she wanted to go into details of how she knew about the accident. "I, ah, I was driving and I saw what had happened. I pulled over and helped out. Sloane pretty much had it under control."

She inwardly sighed as George appeared to accept her explanation. For some reason, she didn't feel like explaining that she had been with Sloane or _why_ she'd been with him. She was still trying to figure that one out herself.

"Stevens, what are you doing here?" Dr. Bailey's sharp voice rang out through the hall way and Izzie turned around promptly to face her.

"I witnessed the accident, and helped Dr. Sloane out, and wanted to see if I could do anything here."

Dr. Bailey exchanged files with the nurse before turning to look at her. "You're not needed. We've got everything under control. Go home."

"Yes, but I would really like to—

Bailey turned around and glared at her. "Do you think I like to talk to hear my own nasally voice? Go home, Stevens. You're services are not needed. Come along, O'Malley, I've got a patient who's been complaining of severe cramps in the abdomen as well as vomiting . . ."

George turned to her and shrugged his shoulders as he raced to follow Bailey. Izzie stood there, annoyed at the feeling of being useless. She looked around the ER hoping to find Mark, knowing that Bailey wouldn't have turned him away. Maybe he would let her help him. When she saw no sign of him, she went to the nurses' station. "Hey, Turner, have you seen Dr. Sloane?"

He looked up at her from the files he was filling out, and paused in thought. "The last I saw of him was when he headed to the elevator about 15 minutes ago."

Izzie knew that his answer didn't really help her out in finding the man. "Thanks." She started to walk towards the elevator but stopped and turned to Turner was again. "Do you happen to know how the baby is . . . the one brought in from the accident? Has any family been contacted?"

"She's fine. Peds has her now, while her mom's in scans. She's still unconscious. The husband's been contacted and will be here in a few hours. He was out of town on a business trip in Portland. "

"Thanks, Tuner!" She said over her shoulder as she made her way to the elevator. Once inside she pressed the button for the fourth floor, planning to check up on the little patient before returning to her search for Dr. Sloane.

With the ding of the elevators, she walked through the doors and made her way to the nurses' station and asked about the newly admitted patient. Izzie smiled when she heard that the baby had been given a clean bill of health and when asked for the room number, she couldn't hide the surprise from her eyes when she was told that the little one already had a visitor. Izzie made her way quietly to the room, and opened the door softly. Her hand went to her mouth in surprise at the sight that greeted her.

Mark Sloane was sitting in the hospital's rocking chair, holding the sleeping baby wrapped in a pink blanket.

Izzie could do nothing but stand there, hidden by the door, and watch the man rock the baby back and forth. She had no idea how long he'd been in the room with the little baby, but she couldn't help but feel like she was somehow intruding.

He looked comfortable, cradling the baby in his arms with his head against the rocker and eyes closed. The scene before her looked like a campaign from Hallmark for Father's Day cards. It was . . . touching and completely unexpected. She couldn't deny that it was a look that suited him well. She'd never really thought of a man like Mark Sloane as one that would deal well with children. But the image before her and the memory of him refusing to let anyone hold the baby _but_ him seemed to prove her wrong.

She saw him open his eyes and felt as if she had been swiftly punched in the gut when she saw the look of pain cross over his features. She watched as he stood up carefully and pulled the infant closer to him before placing her back in the crib and stood there, watching the infant sleep.

Izzie quietly back tracked her steps and rounded the corner, praying that he wouldn't see her. She listened for the sound of his shoes against the linoleum and when she heard his approaching footsteps, she started walking towards him. She lifted her head and acted surprised when she saw him.

"Oh, Dr. Sloane! I was looking for you!" She noticed he had switched his emotional gears as he put on an air of surprise when she called out his name. "I was looking everywhere for you and then I decided to try up here—

"You ready to go, Stevens?" He asked casually.

She also noticed that his voice seemed normal as well. He really was good at hiding behind that mask of his. If she hadn't seen the display of emotion with her own eyes just a moment before, he would have appeared as right as rain. "Yes, I am. I was told that the mother should be fine but she's having scans done now and that the baby is perfect."

"I've also heard that. And the baby is fine, I checked on her myself. She's sleeping now."

"That's good." Izzie fiddled with the charm on her necklace as she racked her brain for things to say, to make sure that he didn't know she'd seen him with the baby. She had a feeling he wouldn't have been too pleased. Normally she wouldn't have minded calling him out, but this . . . this was a new dimension to the man and one that she knew she had treat carefully. Mark Sloane was incredible fragile at the moment for reasons she could only guess about and ones that for some reason, told her to tread lightly, very lightly. She cleared her throat. "I wanted to help out, but—

"Bailey told you weren't needed and to go home?"

She laughed softly, and in her mind, somewhat forcefully. "Yes and in those exact words. She turned you away, too?" They walked to the elevator and got on.

"Yes, she did. I didn't bother to argue with her or to tell her remind her that I am her attending . . ."

Izzie looked at him knowingly. "She terrifies you, too?"

"Just like Freddie Kruger."

"I think she even scares the chief a little, too. One time, there was this huge pile-up on some interstate, I can't really remember which one . . . Anyway, the chief had tried to cut back our hours only to increase the nurses' hours, and they went on strike and it was pure hell. Well, Bailey hunted him down . . ."

"Was the chief hiding away in the supply closet?" He asked. She looked at him and noticed he had a very small grin on his lips, but the sadness in his eyes wasn't entirely gone.

She continued on normally. "I believe he was in the bathroom connected to his office. Anyway, she found him—

Izzie's words dropped off when she saw tension take over his body as the doors opened and Dr. Addison Montgomery stepped on, standing slightly in front of them. The smile was instantly wiped away from his lips and instead was replaced with a rather deep frown. Addison seemed to have noticed as well.

"So, I hear you two saved a mother's life as well as her baby. Good job." She offered a smile before turning around. "Were you two together when you happened upon the accident?" Dr. Montgomery's eyes briefly glanced her way, but mainly focused on Mark, her voice dripping with polite interest and the slight hint of hidden disapproval in the woman's voice didn't escape Izzie.

Izzie's ire flared up towards the woman and just as she was about to tell her that they were _together_ when they arrived to help, Mark's voice stopped her.

"I arrived first on the scene shortly followed by Dr. Stevens." He said making eye contact with Addison when she turned around. Izzie watched them with interest.

"Dr. Stevens actually did a wonderful job taking care of the mother while I went and looked for the baby. In fact, I'm sure that if it was not for her, the mother's condition would be far worse." His eyes met Addison's, heavy silence full of tension radiating between them.

His praise stunned her as well as it did Addison, and she couldn't help but blush at his rarely given words of praise and the weight of neonatal surgeon's gaze on her. But the awkwardness of the situation was beginning to get to her, praise or no praise, and he desire to speak was growing stronger by the second. Just when she opened her mouth, Addison's voice broke the awkward spell.

"Is that so? Well, Dr. Stevens that's wonderful to hear. You never seem to disappoint," She said right as the doors opened and exited the elevator, never looking back at the glare Izzie was sending her through the slits that were her eyes.

Her lips opened to let out a particularly cutting remark about the red head, but closed them again when she saw Mark clenching his jaw, blatantly disregarding her presence. Instead she just crossed her arms and decided to keeps her opinions to herself, making the rest of the elevator ride in silence.

They walked out of the hospital together, both not really caring who saw them at the moment and made their way over to his car. He leaned against the car, covering his eyes with his hands before turning around sharply and pounding his fists on the hood as well as kicking his wheels. Izzie just stood their quietly and watched him.

He stopped and turned to her and held out his hand, snapping at her. "My keys?"

Izzie drew back slightly, caught off guard at his rude demand before gaining hold of her senses. "Listen, I'm not really sure what's wrong with you, I can only guess. But one thing I do know is that you're pissed off and are in no condition to drive."

"Give me the keys, Stevens!" He said through clenched teeth.

"No! You may not value your life, but I value mine!" She stalked towards him and pointed to the passenger's side. "Get in the car, I'm driving."

He stared her down trying to intimidate her, but she held her ground and only relaxed when he went to the passenger's side, opened it, climbed in, and then slammed the door shut behind him. Pulling the keys out of her purse, she got in the car and put the keys in the ignition. Starting the car, she turned to look at him slouching down in the seat with one arm propped against the window, a hand covering his eyes.

She sighed to herself as she pulled out of the parking spot and left the hospital. The only sound that could be heard was the soft plops of rain against the windshield and Izzie had a rather heavy feeling that it was going to be one hell of a long drive.

* * *

_Ok, well there is Chapter 6! I wonder where they are going? Hmmm...I'm sure we'll find out in Chapter 7. So, if you review, I just maybe inclined to finish chapter 7 faster! Hee hee hee! I hope you enjoyed it!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Here is Chapter 7. Thank you to all who reviewed! I have to say that I really am connected to this chapter and I find it to be close to my heart. So I would really appreciate your thoughts and opinions on it! Things are really changing between Izzie and Mark, a whole new dynamic is being created. I hope you enjoy it!_

_--SC_

_Only Shonda and ABC owns Grey's!_

**Chapter 7: Betty Crocker and Old Wounds**

The twenty minute ride was made in silence, save for the 'swoosh' of the windshield wipers chasing the falling drops of rain. Occasionally, she would turn to look at him but he would pointedly ignore her. She realized, rather glumly, that this was the longest the two had ever gone without speaking a word to each other. She didn't bother pressing him to talk. She knew he would when he was ready, but, only when he was ready.

She parked the car on the quiet street and got out, leaving him to follow her actions. She walked straight passed him, ignoring his opened palm, and headed straight for the front door.

"What do you think you're doing?" He demanded, annoyance in his voice.

"I'm unlocking the door to my house. What does it look like I'm doing?" She said to him over her shoulder. She heard his footsteps fall against the concrete as he walked up the front path and stopped at the first step.

"It looks like you're stealing my keys. Give them to me."

"I'm not stealing them. I'm just not returning them to you." She turned when she finally opened the door and turned on the inside light, and stood there waiting, hand perched on her hip. "Well, are you going to come in or are you going to stand outside of my house, in the rain, all night?"

He stood there silently, glaring at her. She imagined that if he'd been a cartoon character, he would have steam coming out of his ears and a face as red as a tomato.

"What are you looking at?" He bit out as he made his way up the steps and stopped to stand in front of her.

"I was just imagining you with steam coming out of your ears, that's all."

"Glad to know I entertain you." He stepped inside and looked around, as if he was appraising the home and found it lacking. "So this is where you live?"

"It is. It's Meredith's house, George used to live here, too, but he's married now, so . . ."

She shrugged her shoulders as she made her way past him, and headed for the kitchen. He followed her. "Do you want a drink? We've got pretty much everything."

"Whiskey?"

"Yes, we have plenty of whiskey." She made a stop by the liquor cabinet and grabbed the Jim Beam. "Hope Beam will do, we're poor interns after all."

"That's not what I've heard."

Her hand stilled as it reached for a glass tumbler from the cabinet. She swallowed and cleared her throat, deciding whether to respond to him and take his bait for what she knew would lead to a heated argument, also something that she knew he was craving. She chose to keep silent and ignored him. Grabbing the glass, she turned around, and sat it in front of him, not making eye contact. "Do you like chocolate, Mark?"

"Yeah, it's ok. Why?"

"We're going to bake a chocolate cake."

"A chocolate cake?" He opened to bottle of liquor and began to pour. "Why the sudden urge to bake?"

"I always bake when something's bothering me." Izzie gathered her ingredients, bowls, and mixer and set them on the island. "It's a form of therapy."

"And what's bothering you tonight, Isobel?" He asked with a hint of sarcasm as he took a gulp of the cheap whiskey.

"Oh, nothing's bothering me. I'm fine."

"Then why are you baking a cake?"

"Not me, _'we'_ are baking a cake." She said reaching in the refrigerator, grabbing the eggs.

"I don't bake."

"Well, you're going to tonight."

"No, I'm not, Betty Crocker."

"Yes, you are." "She turned and placed the eggs on the island. She propped her hands on the counter and leaned towards him, "You need the emotional outlet."

He crossed his arms and cocked his eyebrow defiantly. "What are you talking about? I have no need of an 'emotional outlet'!"

She looked at him, in disbelief. "Is that so? Well, explain to me then why you punched the hood of your $100,000 dollar car, repeatedly, as well as kick the very expensive tires with the 24 inch rims?"

He avoided her gaze as he took another sip of his drink. She saw him mull over her words and she waited patiently for him to respond. He finally turned to look at her.

"If I help you bake this damn cake, will you not pester me with your annoying tendencies to play Oprah and go all deep and . . . crap?"

She smiled at him as she grabbed her a glass and a can of coke. "Only if you make me a whiskey and coke, while I get things ready."

"Deal." He took the glass and soft drink from her and went to the freezer and grabbed some ice and began making her the drink. He watched her riffle through a drawer, taking out towel after towel and placing them on the counter. "You plan on making a huge mess, Stevens?"

"No, I'm looking for something . . ." She kept on digging, springing up when she had finally found her treasure. She turned to him, holding something red in her hands. "Here take this."

He eyed the material suspiciously as he unfolded it. It was a red apron with huge bold, chunky letters that said "Hell's Kitchen." He couldn't help but wonder if he had stepped into it. "What do you want me to do with this thing?"

She turned to him, tying her own pink aprons decorated with white polka dots around her neck. "Put it on, genius."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He did as he was told, not bothering to hide the grimace on his face. "Ok, so . . . what next?"

"You're going to have to come over here and stand by me." She smiled as he grudgingly obliged. She looked up at him and handed him a mixing bowl and some measuring cups. "Ok, let's start off easy. Measure off two cups of flower." She watched him as he dipped the cup into the flour, but stopped him before he dumped it in the bowl. "Wait! Here, take this knife, and using the flat side, wipe the excess off over the flour canister. Be careful so that you don't make a mess."

He rolled his eyes and did as he was told. "Acceptable, Dr. Stevens?"

She smiled. "You're doing just fine, Dr. Sloane. Set that bowl aside. Now, let's mix our sugar, butter, eggs, and sour cream."

He turned to her in disgust. "Sour cream?"

"You'll have to trust me on this one. It's what makes this cake awesome." She grabbed the butter and chopped it into little pieces and handed the plate to him. "Here, put this in the mixing bowl and then measure one and a half cups of sugar." She watched him while she began cracking the eggs. She smiled to herself as he measured the sugar using the method she'd showed him. The tables had been turned. Inside of the O.R., he had years of surgical knowledge and expertise to share with her, to teach her. But inside her kitchen, when it came to baking a cake, he was a novice. She was the one teaching her teacher something he held no knowledge in. Irony had one hell of a sense of humor.

"Ok, now take the hand mixer and cream the two on a low speed." She bit her lip as he studied the hand mixer in an effort to hide her smile. "Have you ever used a hand mixer before?"

He looked at her sheepishly. "Um, no, I'm afraid not."

"It's rather simple. Just two words of advice, make sure that you turn the mixer on and off while it's still in the—

"Holy shit!"

". . . bowl!" Her words were too late as butter and sugar went flying in the air, leaving a stunned Mark, wiping the mixture off of his face with his hand. Izzie looked at him in surprise, with the butter and sugar in his hair and tried hard to contain her laughter as she handed him a towel.

She watched as he struggled to keep his laughter in. "Did . . . did I get it all?"

She shook her head, trying to catch her breath. She had never seen Mark Sloane look so ridiculous.

He shook his head, chagrined. "Is there a bathroom I could use?"

She pointed down the hall. "Third door…on the…on the left!" She watched him as he walked down the hall and enter the bathroom, finally letting her laughter out after she heard the door close behind him.

"I can hear you laughing, you know!" His muffled shout only made her laugh harder.

* * *

Izzie had finished adding the last ingredient to the batter when Mark entered the kitchen again, hair slick with moisture, and the towel hanging over his shoulder.

"Did you get it all?"

"I think so. I will for sure when I take a shower." He eased himself onto the stool and watched Izzie mix the remaining ingredients with the hand mixer. "So I take it you're not gonna let me use that thing again?"

Izzie's eyes met his in a smile. "Actually, I was going to let you finish, but you took too long primping and the batter couldn't wait on you, Mr. Vidal Sassoon."

He snorted. "I use Paul Mitchell, get it right."

"Oh, excuse me. I should have known you were a hair products type of guy."

"It happens when you have a guy like Shepard as your best friend for nearly all of your life . . ." He coughed and shifted uncomfortably on the stool. "Well, ex-best friend."

Izzie looked at him briefly before turning around to grab the Crisco and powdered sugar off of the other counter. "Hey, come over and stand by me at the sink. Oh, and will you grab those two pans next to the bowl."

Mark did as he was told and made his way over to her. "You're not banning me from baking? Even after that miserable attempt with the mixer?"

"Absolutely not. We all make messes sometimes. We just clean them up and keep going." She began rolling her sleeves . "You may want to push your sleeves up because this can get messy."

"Ok," He said as pushed the sleeves of his grey shirt up. "What are we doing now?"

"Now, we are going to grease and dust the pan."

" 'Dust the pan'? How do we do that?"

"I'll show you. First you take some Crisco." She reached into the tub with a spoon, then put the shortening on her hands and passed it to Mark, watching him do the same. "Now, rub your fingers on the bottom and sides of the pan, spreading it as evenly as you can." She looked at his pan and gave her approval. "Awesome. Now, we dust."

"We dust . . . with the powdered sugar, I'm guessing?" He took the towel she handed him and wiped his hands.

"Ding, ding, ding! You are correct. Ok, now, here's the messy part and it's best to do it over the sink," She said as she grabbed the box of powdered sugar. "Now we are going to sprinkle powdered sugar over the pan."

"Why powdered sugar and not flour?"

"Well, it basically does the same thing as flour and it gives the cake a better taste. Plus, it's something my grandmother always did when she baked." She felt his gaze on her as she dusted the Confectioner's sugar over the pan and couldn't help but pat herself on the back for the drastic change of mood Mark Sloane was in. She had a feeling that if she had left him alone, he would currently be sitting in a bar getting drunk and looking for an easy screw. Yes, her form of diversion may have just saved him form a hangover and a very nasty venereal disease.

"So, you use to bake with your grandmother a lot?"

She passed him the box of powdered sugar before turning back to the island. Grabbing the bowl of batter, she began filling the cake pan. "Yeah, I did. My grandmother would keep me while my mom worked her two jobs. She was the best baker in the county. Every Fourth of July, she would enter this baking contest. All week long we would bake tirelessly and stay up late. We made cobblers, pies, cakes, and jams, tons of jams, I mean gallons of different jams. I used to live for that week." She smiled at him as she slid the bowl of batter towards him and handed him the spatula.

"Did you guys ever win?"

"Oh, yeah. We were the bitches to beat. My grandmother had some intense enemies when it came to the baking contest. Even though the old biddies were all friends when it came to Thursday nights . . . bridge night."

"Your grandmother played bridge too?"

Izzie laughed. "She did, but she sucked at it. Your grandmother played?"

"She did, every Wednesday at noon, with the ladies of the Junior League while sipping mint juleps."

"Oh…" Understanding dawned on Izzie.

"Yes."

"So, I take it you came from a very prominent family?"

"I guess you could define my family as that." He turned to her with his full pan. "What do you want me to do with this?"

"I'll take it." She grabbed one of the cake pans and made her way to the oven, and placed it on the rack, the other soon following. "So . . . is Shepard's family a 'prominent' family as well?"

"In my grandmother's eyes, no. She called his family 'nouveau riche.' But in my eyes, I would say so."

"Nouveau riche is better than no riche," She muttered quietly. She looked at him curiously as she began wiping down the counter. "You said that in your eyes Derek's family was 'prominent.' What do you mean by that?"

Mark sighed as he reached across the island counter for his drink. "Well, Derek's parents worked for everything they had. They were professionals, but they had to work for every penny, whereas my family . . . well, we work, but it's not because we have to . . . " He paused and took a sip of his whiskey. "His family . . . they actually get along and love each other. They were like the Brady Bunch except his parents have been together the whole time. "

Izzie continued cleaning, waiting for him, no, _hoping_ that he would continue. She looked at him quickly, and took note of his features. He was sharing a part of himself she'd never thought she would discover. "How did you and Shepard become close friends if your were so. . ."

"How did we become friends if our families were so different?" His eyes met hers, as she bit her lip and nodded softly. He leaned his hips against the counter. "We were twelve years old, and we were on the same hockey team. We had both been put on the same D-line and we had gotten to know each other, through practices, but we hadn't become friends until this one day, after practice. We were both waiting for our rides when this kid . . . this punk, named Carl Franklin, came up to me and said to me, 'Your mom is fucking my dad. You know what that makes her? A whore.' "

His eyes met hers when he heard her sharp intake of breath and she watched as he simply nodded. "I can't believe that . . . what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything. I just stood there in shock, trying to figure out what "fuck" and "whore" meant." He looked at her with a smirk on his face. "I was actually an innocent back then. But, Derek? Derek punched the kid and broke his nose in two places." She watched as his hand went to his neck and rubbed the tired muscles. "And after that day, he was my best friend. And Franklin's nose is still crooked."

"I'm guessing that your parents didn't have a happy marriage?" She asked stating what seemed to be the obvious.

"Nope. They divorced when I was five. My mother has been married three times, and before my father died, he'd just married wife number five, who was fifteen years younger than him, named Honey."

Izzie went to the fridge to grab another can of Coke and turned to him in disgust. "Honey? Like the stuff bees produce?" She shivered in horror as she made her way back to him, and started pouring the soft drink in her glass." Well, I know what it's like not growing up in a happy home, so I can identify. Except my background is much different than yours."

"Oh, yeah?" He reached for the whiskey bottle and poured some more in their glasses, raising his eyebrow as Izzie poured some Coke into his. "Since I shared some of my harrowing childhood past, you have to share some of yours."

"I grew up in a trailer park, my dad left us when I was two, taking all of the money, and basically, leaving us broke. My mom took care of us the best way she could, but having dropped out of high school, there was only so much she could do to support the two of us. So, she worked two jobs, one as a waitress and the other as a clerk for a local motel."

She took a sip of her whiskey and coke trying to decide just how much she wanted to share with him about her past. "And on top of that, she had a string of never ending boyfriends, all creeps . . ."

"None of them touched you did they?"

Her eyes met his, seeing worry clearly displayed in them. Her hand covered his in reassurance. "No, none of them touched me, although if their looks could have, I would have been naked all the time."

"God, Iz . . . I'm sorry."

"Hey, I'm not telling you this for pity. It's a part of me . . . it's made me who I am and I'm not ashamed of my past." She sighed, when he withdrew his hand from her. Her hands went to her hair, and took the clip out, letting the bun fall into loose waves around her shoulders, hoping that tension would be released as well as her hair.

"If it wasn't for my grandmother . . ." She paused in thought as she peered down in her glass. ". . . while my mother made sure that I was clothed and fed, my Nana was the one that made sure I was loved and read to, that I did my homework . . . basically, she made me into the success that I am now. And when she died after a series of strokes when I was fourteen, I was crushed." She looked at him and offered a small smile. "But she also made me promise her something the day before she died."

He looked up at her, curious. "What was the promise?"

"That I would graduate high school and go to college, and make something of my life."

"I'd say you've done that." Their eyes connected in a deep understanding of the hurts of their childhoods and the scars that were left behind. Izzie was the first to break the eye contact her cheeks flushed from the warm heat radiating from the oven.

A small smile graced her lips as her eyes returned to his. "I'd say it's an ongoing process," she said quietly. Taking her eyes from his, Izzie looked at the timer. "We have thirty more minutes until the cakes are done. Why don't we go into the living room?"

Picking up her drink, she made her way into the living room, and plopped on the couch, kicking her shoes off. "I'm warning you, the feet may smell . . ."

"Lucky for you, this damned rainy weather has given me a head cold, and I can't breath

. . . or smell," he said as he joined her, doing the same, but propping his feet on the coffee table.

"Ugh . . . I wish I could say the same." She said as she made a gagging noise.

"Oh, shut up." He said chuckling as he reached for the remote and turned on the TV.

"Make yourself at home, Mark." She said wryly as she watched him channel surf.

"I will." He relaxed, making himself comfortable on the couch. "So where is the happy couple?"

"I think they went up to his property for the weekend."

"Ah, yes. The trailer and his land with the panoramic view."

"Heard about it then?"

"Yes, but not in the loveliest of descriptions."

"Well, you can take my word for it. It's gorgeous. Really peaceful . . . very connected with nature."

"Addison hated it."

Her eyes flickered to him. "She never struck me as the 'outdoorsy' type. More like, Park Avenue."

"There's nothing wrong with Park Avenue. I lived on Park Avenue."

Her head turned slowly towards him, as she said softly, "Of course, there isn't."

"I know it's easy to peg Addison as the bad guy in this . . ."

She didn't want to hear him sanctify Addison once more. "Mark, she hurt you—

His pleading look silenced her. "I hurt her, too, Izzie. And I hurt Derek . . . hell, I hurt myself." He got up and started to pace. " I fucked up majorly!" He turned and looked at her sharply, stopping in front of her. "You've defended me and stood up for me when . . . I was in a low place . . . and nobody's done that for me in a long time. And to be quite honest, I haven't deserved it."

"Mark—

"No!" One of his hands went to his hair, and he started his pacing again. "If you are going to put yourself out there for me, I want you to know who you're fighting for."

Izzie nodded and sat there quietly as she waited for him to go on.

"I slept with my best friend's wife. Did I love Addison? Yeah, I did. I loved her for years but I loved my best friend . . . like a brother. He stood by me when no one else did, yet, I couldn't keep it in my pants and I slept with his wife, more than once . . . for months. And the whole time I knew that in her eyes, I was just a cheap replacement for Derek."

His pacing stopped as his hands fell on his hips, and his eyes looked at hers, piercingly, gripping Izzie with the intensity of his words, his emotions. "I loved her, even when she called out his name when I was inside her . . . I still loved her.

"And I loved her when I fucked the girl from the gym during my lunch break, knowing full well, that she'd come home and find me fucking another woman." His eyes never wavered from hers as he continued on.

"I hurt two of the people I loved most in this world . . . all because of the choices I made." He sat down and grabbed his drink and finished it in one gulp. "I guess I'm my mother's son, after all. At least I come by it honest." His elbows rested on his knees, as one of his hands ran over his face. "You still think I'm worth defending, Stevens?" Letting out a deep sigh, he turned to look at her, his eyes open and waiting for her to . . . call him names? To call him a scoundrel with no soul?

Izzie took in the haggard lines of his face and the emptiness of his eyes, knowing he fully expected her to cast stones. She scooted closer to him, and put her hand on his shoulder. "If you're trying to scare me away, it's not working."

He lifted his head and looked at her disbelievingly. "Did you not just hear a word I said? I'm damaged! I'm a damager… I destroy everyone that comes into my life." He stood up, shrugging her hand off of his shoulder, and said softly to himself, "No wonder she didn't have it."

Izzie's heart stopped, terrified of what he may have just admitted. "What are you talking about, Mark?"

Silence greeted her question. She stood up and walked over to him, not touching him. "Was . . . did she . . . did she abort your baby, Mark?"

She saw the air rush out of his body, leaving him deflated and, defeated. In a broken voice, he told her, "She said she wanted a baby . . . Just not _my baby." _

Her eyes closed in horror, thankful his back was turned to her. Placing her hand gently on his back, she whispered softly, "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I would have made a terrible father. The kid's probably better off—

"Don't!" Izzie moved her body in front of his and made him face her. "Don't you dare say that it's better off dead."

"Izzie, everything I love gets poisoned!" His eyes darkened with self-loathing.

"Having a child changes you, it changes everything!"

He looked at her defiantly and argued. "It wouldn't change me. . . I'm defective." His finger pointed to his chest hard. " It's in my genes!"

"You were never given the chance to change!" Izzie shook her head as she tried to make him understand. "Trust me, a baby gives you a new perspective . . . on everything."

She felt his gaze grow heavy as he took her in. Slowly he asked, "How do you know this, Izzie?"

She stood there for a moment frozen in place. But as she took in the broken man before her, she made a decision. She walked to her purse and pulled out her wallet, looking for the worn picture she carried around with her always. She looked up at him, and saw him waiting for her . . . She handed the photo to him and watched him studied it. "I haven't shown this to anyone. Not George. Not Meredith . . . no one. You're the first person I've ever shared this bit of my life with so . . ."

"She's beautiful." He looked at her, a sad smile on his lips as understanding of her action washed over him. "She has your eyes."

"And my curly hair unfortunately. I think she's about six years old in that picture. She'll be eleven next month" She stood next to him and peered down at the old photograph.

He turned to her. "So you were about sixteen when you had her. You were young."

"Yes, I was." Mark offered the picture back to her, and she took it, putting it back in its previous spot in her wallet. They stood there in a beat of silence both unsure of what to say that would make things right for the other, only to be disturbed by the sound of the oven's timer going off. Izzie made her way back into the kitchen, grabbing the cakes from the oven, and placing them both on wire racks to cool. He followed her in there.

He stood there against the doorframe, watching her. Softly he asked, "Why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Give the baby up for adoption? Why didn't you . . . " His words faltered.

"Abortion was never an option for me. I believe a woman should have the right to choose, I just know that I could never do it." She made her way to the front of the island and sat down on a stool, facing him. "It hurt like hell, giving my baby away to a family I had only met a couple of times. I mean, I knew they were good people and would love her and would give her the things I could never give her, but it still hurt." Her fingers toyed with the hem of her apron. "I cried myself to sleep every night for three months, and then it moved to every other night, and then I would just cry whenever I saw a baby close to her age. But, eventually, the tears just stopped. Every now and then I have these constant twinges in my heart whenever I see a young girl with curly blonde hair and brown eyes."

She looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyes, and shrugged. "I didn't really have a choice, when it came right down to it. I love my daughter, but I want more for her."

He came and sat down next to her, but didn't touch her. They sat quietly for a few moments, both thinking about the children they'd lost.

"I saw you in the nursery, holding Emma Grace." She turned her face towards his and spoke carefully. "You'll make a great father one day, Mark. I see it in you."

His eyes met hers, with a look of hope in them mixed with disbelief and she reached for his hand, grasping it in her own. They sat like that, hands connecting them, wrapped in the silence once again, both content to just _be._

"Is it . . ." His voice ended the silence, thick with emotion, but he stopped as he tore his eyes away from hers and broke their grasp.

" 'Is it' what, Mark?" She prodded gently, looking at him.

Clearing his throat, he continued softly, his voice rough. "Is it crazy to have loved something so much, to love something _still_ . . . when it never even got a chance to be yours?"

"No, it's not crazy," she said as she rested her head against his shoulder. "That's the love of a parent. When you first hear of its existence, you fall in love . . . you don't even have a choice."

"I guess not," He breathed out on a shaky sigh.

"You're not defective, Mark. You just haven't been given good examples of love. Granted, my mother wasn't always there for me, but she loved me in her own way . . . but, my Nana, she showed me the kind of love it takes." She looked at him confidently. "You've got it in you, Mark. You've just got to be ready for it."

And with that Izzie got up and went to the pantry grabbing sticks of unsweetened chocolate and other ingredients, leaving him to digest what she said to him. Mark wasn't defective, damaged maybe, but not defective due to a mutation of genes that left him unable to have a healthy relationship. He just didn't know what _real_ love was . . . he'd never experienced it. And as Izzie reached for the vanilla flavoring, she felt her heart ache for the man sitting on her kitchen stool, and clumsily, she wiped away a tear that had escaped down her cheek.

Closing the pantry door, she turned to find a questioning gaze in his blue eyes and she offered him a smile. "It's time to make the icing!"

* * *

_Ok, so . . . please, please review this chapter because this chapter meant a lot to me and I need to know if you like where I went with it, what your favorite parts were, where you would like to see me take this story, what you'd like to see, etc, etc, etc. I have an ultimate goal of where I'd like this story to go...it's just getting there that's a little tricky. SO...you know the drill! Thanks for reading!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Ok, folks! Here is chapter 8! I'm trying something new with this chapter. All of my other chapters have only revolved around Izzie and Mark. Well, this chapter, I am involving some of the other characters. Please don't shoot me if I didn't capture their voices just right. I'm trying something new. _

_This chapter is somewhat of a filler, but it's laying down some important ground work for future chapters. I hope you like it!_

_Thank you all for the wonderful and kind reviews you gave me! You have no idea how much they mean to me! _

_Thanks!_

_SC_

_ All characters belong to ABC and Shonda!_

Chapter 8: Peeping Toms and Snack Breaks

Izzie turned over in her sleep and snuggled deeper under her fluffy comforter, her eyes briefly opening as she rolled over onto her back. She lay there as a brief moment of realization washed over her, her body prickling with awareness. There was someone standing by her bed, looking down at her, watching her sleep. Her eyes opened slowly, afraid of who she would find . . . an ax murder? Or maybe the weird, balding man that lived with his 80 year old mother in the house next door (whom Izzie also happened to think was a bit of a peeping tom?)

She let out a breath in relief as she looked at the pair of legs beside her bed, her eyes traveling up to the familiar face that went along with the legs. She always did have an overactive imagination which she liked to think it was a part of her creativity. But still, Izzie couldn't help but confess to herself, their next door neighbor was a little scary.

"Meredith, do you have any idea of just how creepy you are?" She said groggily. Her arm reached clumsily for the clock on her bedside table. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she groaned as she took in the time. "My God . . . it's only 7:30 in the morning. Go away."

Meredith stood over her, looking at her curiously. "Why is there a man asleep on my couch?" Her voice grew louder with agitation and disbelief. "And why does that man strongly resemble McSteamy!?"

"I found him in a bassinet outside of our door when I got home. He had a bow and everything." Izzie said sarcastically as she turned her back to her roommate and tried to resume her slumber. "Go away and let me sleep!"

Meredith grabbed one of her pillows and hit her in the head with it. "Izzie! This is serious . . . and more than a little . . . strange." Meredith climbed into the bed beside her roommate and snuggled underneath the covers. "Did you sleep with him? Because if you did . . . it's kinda weird that he's asleep on my couch and not in your bed. But if you did sleep with him . . . why didn't he just go home instead of shacking here and well, you know, sleeping on my mother's sofa?"

Izzie sat up glaring at her roommate for ruining her plans of sleeping in. "No, I did not sleep with McSteamy."

"Well, that's good. I'm glad to hear you haven't taken to my habit of sleeping with inappropriate men." Meredith sat up, fluffing her pillow and leaned back against it. "But why, exactly, is McSteamy asleep and drooling on my couch?"

Izzie stretched the muscles in her body, annoyed that she had to deal with this on a day where she actually got to sleep in. She also was further annoyed at the fact that her roommate had returned home earlier than expected—much earlier, which in turn was forcing her to deal with, well, _this._ "What are you doing here, Mere? I thought you'd still be with McDreamy connecting with Mother Nature and eating trout and granola for breakfast."

Meredith narrowed her eyes in annoyance. "He has a craniotomy at ten and wanted to get to the hospital early. And he only made me eat trout for breakfast once and it really wasn't that bad. You're still avoiding my question."

Izzie rolled her eyes and crawled over Meredith, looking for her slippers. Finding them under her bed, she slipped her feet into her bunny slippers, and answered her. "We baked a cake."

She ignored the look of shock on Meredith's face and headed for the bathroom. Meredith followed her, close on her heels.

"You baked a cake? With McSteamy!?" She asked loudly, her voice laced with disbelief.

"Shh!" Izzie turned around to her and frantically pointed her finger down to the floor below them, trying to remind her friend of their houseguest. She didn't want Mark to wake up and overhear their conversation about him which would only make this awkward situation more awkward. She quickly walked to the bathroom.

She tried to shut the door, but Meredith beat her to it and slid into the bathroom. "Ok, so you baked a cake. What kind of cake?"

"Chocolate." Izzie began brushing her teeth hoping to send the message that she didn't particularly care to talk about their current topic of conversation.

"You baked a chocolate cake. With McSteamy . . . who is currently asleep on my couch." Meredith said putting the bits of information together and cocked her eyebrow, still baffled by her roommate's involvement with the plastic surgeon. "But . . . _why_ did you bake a cake with him and _why_ is he still here?"

Izzie spit the foaming toothpaste into the sink and rinsed her mouth out with water. "There was an accident last night and we both witnessed it. It was pretty gruesome," she said as she turned off the water while trying to decide on the details she wanted to share with her roommate. ". . . he was really affected by it and so was I. So we baked a cake .."

Meredith nodded her head, but she was still trying to make sense of it all. "Ok . . ."

Izzie walked past her, but stopped at the door and turned around. "And we also consumed the whole fifth of Jim Beam. Besides, friends don't let friends drive drunk. "

She turned to go but was stopped by Meredith's hand on her arm and turned to her annoyed.

"You're friends with Mark Sloane!? When did this happen? When did this start?"

"It's a phrase, Meredith."

Meredith started shaking her head, knowing something was up and that there was a lot more to the story than she was telling. "You've been on some pretty horrific cases, Izzie. Remember the twenty year old burn victim with 90 of his body needing skin grafts from two months ago? That case affected everybody, especially all the doctors on it."

"Your point?" Izzie grabbed her floss and started to floss her teeth, trying to ignore Meredith and focus on her dental hygiene routine instead.

"You were on that with Sloane . . . I don't remember you baking with him during that case. There was a bottle of tequila we shared and killer hangovers, but there was no baking with McSteamy."

Izzie threw the used floss into the waste basket, and turned around to Meredith, slightly peeved. "What are you getting at, Mere?"

"There's something going on with you . . ."

"There is nothing going on with me. I'm fine. Perfect."

Izzie sighed as she took in her friend's concerned expression. It was a look that both Meredith and George wore whenever they were worried about her. They'd been wearing it off and on for the last five months and sixteen days. It was a look as if they both expected her to shatter and they were waiting by the sidelines, with a broom and dust pan in their grasp, just waiting to put the pieces back together again with crazy glue.

She was tired of those looks they gave her and she was done with being handled with care.

"I'm sorry, Iz. I'm just a little baffled." Meredith turned towards her friend and leaned against the wall. "I thought you didn't like Sloane . . . at all, and then I come home to find him asleep on my couch, and . . ." Meredith shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know what to think."

Izzie grabbed a hair band and pulled her hair into a pony tail. Looking in the full length mirror on the wall next to the door to check her hair, her eyes connected with Meredith's. "Honestly, I don't either."

Meredith lowered her brows in thought and started slowly. "So . . . are you . . . _friends_ with McSteamy then?"

Izzie let the word float around in her head, testing it out. When she thought about the definition of 'friend', the words _trust_, _support,_ and _honesty_ sprang to mind and she knew, that all three of those were had been put into action between she and Mark. She'd been honest with him, especially when he didn't want to hear it. She'd supported him last night and he'd supported her that night on the bench. And . . . she had shared one of her deepest secrets, and fully trusted him with it.

Izzie's brown eyes met Meredith's. "Yeah," she said softly. "Yeah, you could call us that."

"How long have you been friends with him?"

"I don't know. A few weeks . . . maybe close to a month?"

Meredith's eyes grew large in surprise. "A month . . . you've been friends with him for a month!? How did I not know this?"

Izzie shrugged her shoulders and turned around. "You've been busy, Meredith . . . and happy with your McDreamy going on dates and nature walks. And to be completely honest, I really don't feel like going into all the particulars. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go check on Mark and make sure he's ok."

She walked away, leaving a very shocked and confused Meredith alone in the bathroom. As she reached for her toothbrush and toothpaste, she couldn't help but wonder how Derek would have reacted to finding his ex-best friend sleeping on her couch, especially the part where he spent the night baking a cake in her kitchen with one of her roommates. Now, that would have been a very interesting start to their morning.

* * *

"Something's up with Izzie." Meredith sat down in a chair and balanced her container of fruit on her lap. She looked over to the old man to make sure her added presence hadn't disturbed him.

"Something's always up with Izzie. That's her style." Alex said as he bit into his apple, while reading about the latest procedure in neonatal surgeries.

Meredith sat there frustrated as she looked across the room at Alex and Christina. It was just the three of them working the early shift and they all had a break. Izzie and George were on the schedule to come in later and would be on call for the night. "No, I mean it. She's . . ." She took a bite of her cantaloupe trying to describe _it_ exactly, this thing that was going on with Izzie. "Ok, you know how vocal she is whenever something's bothering her, right?"

"Yes, she's very vocal. Almost too vocal. There have been times when I've wanted to strangle her." Christina looked up and thought about her statement. "Basically whenever she opens her mouth."

"Exactly! Well, not the bit that involves strangulation . . . but you're right. She's vocal, always, no matter what. Seriously, haven't you guys noticed?"

"Noticed what?" Alex and Christina chorused together. Meredith could tell they weren't nearly as concerned about their friend as she was.

"That she's been quiet lately . . . less vocal."

"Yeah and it's been nice."

Meredith threw a glare at Christina. "It's odd . . . it's very, very odd and un-Izzie like. I'm worried about her."

Alex looked up from the medical journal and shrugged. "Listen, I'm sure she's just been worried about her and O'Malley and how she can dig herself out the hole she's created . . . she'll be back to normal in no time."

Meredith considered his words thinking that that may be a part of the issue, but it just didn't cover everything. "Well . . . how do explain the fact that I found Mark Sloane sleeping on my couch?"

Both Christina and Alex looked up at that.

"Izzie had a sleepover with McSteamy?" Christina asked, her eyes huge.

"She slept with Sloane?" Alex didn't bother hiding the disgust.

Christina looked at Alex, annoyed. "He's hot. I'd do him."

Alex sent Christina a glare and he turned to Merdith wanting further explanation. She swallowed. "Well, she told me that they didn't sleep together—

"She must be stupid," Christina muttered.

Meredith ignored her. "But they did . . . bake a cake together."

"What?" Alex asked, slightly choking on his apple.

" '_They baked a cake'_ . . . is that some new kind of metaphor for getting stoned or something?" Christina asked confused.

Meredith rolled her eyes. "She said that they witnessed some major accident together and that they needed a form of therapy, so they baked. But that's all the details she gave me. And you know Izzie . . . she loves details."

"She made him bake? I've lost the little respect I had for Sloane." Alex said as he took brought his bottle of water to his lips.

"I can't picture McSteamy baking. I wonder if she made him wear an apron. She made Burke wear an apron," Christina muttered, a little disgusted at the memory of Thanksgiving.

"She says that they're friends."

Alex laughed. "That's impossible. Sloane doesn't have any friends."

" Well, she says that they've been friends for a month." Meredith sat the plastic cup on the ground and sat back. "How is it possible that none of us noticed that she's become friends with McSteamy when we're supposed to be her friends?"

Meredith slumped down in her chair and continued. "I just don't understand why she's turned to him when we're right here . . . have we really been that absorbed in our own lives that we haven't noticed her hurting?"

They were all silent as they looked at each other.

"We're her family . . . and I think we've been neglecting her. What if something is seriously going on?"

"Meredith, I'm sure things are fine and you're just making this an issue out of nothing. If there was something bothering her, we'd know because she'd tell us. She's not the kind of person where you have to pull things out of her. She's open and honest with her feelings."

"Evil Spawn's right. It's Izzie . . . she likes to bake and do _kind_ things for people. She's considerate . . . it's what she does. Maybe she's just telling the truth that they baked because . . . it was 'therapy' or whatever."

Meredith looked at Christina. "Maybe you're right. But . . . there's something going on between them. I can tell. I noticed that she made him breakfast before I left. He was sitting at my counter, with her right beside him, and they were eating scrambled eggs."

Christina got up and stretched. "I think you're worrying over nothing, Meredith."

Meredith watched Christina walk out of the room and turned to Alex. "You know Izzie, you two had a thing. Do you think I'm just making an issue out of this?"

Alex closed his journal and looked at her. "Izzie's smart and Sloane's an egotistical ass that sleeps with anything that wears a skirt. She can handle him."

"I know she can. It's just that, something's different with Izzie . . ." Meredith mumbled to herself, a little annoyed that she was the only one who could see that _something_ was going on with Izzie.

After a few moments of silence, Alex stood up and headed for the door, and opened it. But just before leaving, he turned back to Meredith and looked at her. Softly he asked, "Would you be bubbly and perky if the six month anniversary of your fiancé's death was coming up in a couple of weeks?"

His eyes met Meredith's, as he tried to make her understand. " She's coping, Meredith. She's not going to bitch to everybody about her feelings like she usually does. She lost Denny, the guy she was in love with. She's handling it . . . just let her do it in her own way . And as much as I dislike her having anything to do with Sloane, it makes sense."

Meredith's brows rose in confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

"He's the only one who wasn't here when Denny died. Sloane hasn't been tainted with his death . . . he doesn't remind her of it." He broke his gaze and left the room, leaving Meredith with the old man, to think about what he just said.

Meredith closed her eyes, trying to ignore the realization and the feeling of powerlessness that was hitting her. "Damn, Izzie. You're hurting and there's nothing I can do about it."

The old man's gasp for air seemed to agree with her.

* * *

_Please read and review! I'd love ya forever!_


	9. Chapter 9

Alright, my dear and wonderfully patient readers, here is chapter 9! Goodness, I can't believe that this story has gone to 9 chapters…its mind boggling. I apologize for not updating recently. I am currently in my senior year of college and am student teaching and have projects galore which are all very time consuming. Believe me, if I didn't have to graduate, I would much rather succumb to the fantasy world that is McStizzie. Again, I apologize for the lack of updates.

So, in this chapter, something very important happens, something that is much needed for one of the characters. It will now lead us into a new direction. So, without further ado….

Enjoy the story!

None of the characters belong to me, only Shonda and ABC. Oh, except for Ms. Marty Jensen.

Author's note: So, if you haven't noticed by now, my chapters tend to skip in regards to time. So this takes place about 2 to three weeks after Chapter 8. Izzie and Mark have been hanging out regularly and have been enjoying one another's company, and becoming close friends. So, that should catch you up.

This chapter has not been beta'd. All mistakes are mine. So sorry. And reviews are love!

_Chapter 9: The Reconstruction Era_

"Let's take a look at the new you, Ms. Jensen."

Mark Sloane turned the full length mirror towards the direction of the woman with bandages wrapped all over her body, leaning against two nurses for support. Marty Jensen had undergone a body lift, a major reconstructive surgery that involved a breast lift and implants, tummy tuck, as well as a thigh and buttock lift.

The woman taking in her reflection had lost a substantial amount of weight, one hundred and thirty-seven pounds to be exact, thanks to her hard work and dedication to creating a new life for herself. It was something Mark had found remarkable and very admirable.

She'd told him in one of their many consults that she had hidden behind her weight, using it as a blanket to shield her from the hurt others would willingly and unwillingly afflict to her heart. With broken green eyes, she had looked at him and told him that she had been the greatest coward in all of her thirty-one years of life and was tired of hiding behind a shield that was literally killing her instead of protecting her and that she was ready to finally start living.

He felt himself identifying with his patient. He understood her using her body as a shield against other's intentions, hell, he'd done it himself. The weapons they used were different, but they both held similar tactics with the same goal: to keep others out and make sure their hearts are left intact.

If someone got too close to the danger zone that was his heart, he'd instantly react. He'd find a woman, beautiful and attractive, ready and willing to take part in his war games, and he'd do the defensive maneuver, quick and fast, almost blinding the opponent threatening to invade and take his heart, but he would sideswipe them in the middle of their offensive attack, leaving them stunned.

It was what had happened with Addison. She had somehow penetrated the defenses of his heart and had left him open, vulnerable, and almost defenseless. He had almost let his whole guard down thinking that she actually wanted him and had loved him.

But he'd known he'd only fooled himself in regards to Addison's feelings towards him. It all became perfectly and painfully clear when he came home one evening to find Addison on the floor of his bathroom, her knuckles white from clutching a picture of Derek, huddled into a ball, eyes swollen from the tears.

He'd led himself to believe in a dream that would never come true and it was a bitter cruelty he'd inflicted on himself. So he went on the defensive end and using all of the strategical planning that would make a four star general proud, he formulated a plan that worked brilliantly and swiftly, leaving as little causality behind as possible.

The causalities may have been few in number, but the price paid was a rather steep one. He'd lost his best friend when he gave into his heart's unspoken dream of loving Addison freely and fully, and he'd lost the only woman he thought he'd ever loved.

He tried to rectify his wrongs and his ill advised plans of war in grand gestures. He'd made the transcontinental trips to Seattle for a rendezvous' in the sheets when she'd call him broken. He thought she'd needed him, that she'd been lost without him. And she had needed him…she'd needed his body to dull the pain by blinding her senses with movements of his body. And to him, that need of his body had given him hope. It had made him believe that she would also come to need his love as well.

And rather naively, he'd made the trip to Seattle once more, but this time, in the form of a grand gesture. This time, his hands held a metaphorical olive branch and a Treaty of Second Chances. He would make things right between him and Addison and he'd earn his broken brother's trust back. He would return his life back to a relative normal . . . a life that he knew well and understood.

But his plans of reconciliation hadn't quite gone as planned. His Treaty of Second Chances had been proven useless because Addison was done with him and was moving on with her life rather nicely, with a man who seemed to have less baggage and darkness.

And she was happy. She still thought he was up to his old tricks as was made blatantly obvious by her remarks in the elevator the night of the crash, which proved to him that while she may be finished with him, it would take quite awhile for her to trust him again and to see him as anything less than a whore.

And then it hit him, an epiphany of sorts, maybe a light bulb moment. It had all become abundantly clear to him that he, Mark Sloane, was tired of it all. He was tired of the constant fighting, of the carnage he created with his emotional battles, and he was tired of always losing in the end because he was too afraid to fully risk his heart. That's why he had fallen for Addison in the first place. She was unattainable and taken, and safe to love from afar…and it was love, an unhealthy love that ended up damaging him, but it was a love that he had needed. Because now, right at this moment, he had finally gotten to the point in his life where he was ready to take down the impenetrable wall around his heart. He was ready to risk it all.

He felt a warm hand reach for his, and turned his eyes to meet Marty Jensen's.

"Thank you, Dr. Sloane . . ." Her voice was thick with emotion, as tears fell freely down her cheeks.

He felt a smile spread over his face as his hand tightened on hers. "You did it, Marty."

Marty's laugh rang through the room. "I did, didn't I? I did it."

"Yes, you did, Marty . . ." He said softly as he looked at both of their reflections in the mirror. He saw two people finally ready to let their guards down and to really start living.

* * *

"Dr. Sloane!" 

Mark turned to see O'Malley run after him. He'd left Marty Jensen's room, hoping for a moment for himself, to think things over, but it seemed that he wasn't going to get his quiet moment of solitude for awhile. "What is it, O'Malley . . . make it quick. I don't have all day to _chit chat_," he bit out sarcastically as he kept walking.

He watched as George stopped short and sputtered. He really didn't understand how Stevens was best friends with him or why Torres married him. Callie was somewhat of an aggressive wildcat in bed, and he knew from experience that it took quite a man to fulfill her needs. Taking in the younger man's average stature, he wondered if he'd underestimated the young intern judging from the smile his wife was wearing this morning.

The intern caught up with him. "I wanted to talk to you about Dr. Stevens, sir."

Mark stopped and turned to look at George O'Malley. The intern's nervousness in addressing him changed to a steely resolve and Mark instantly bristled. "What about Dr. Stevens, O'Malley?"

"I've been told that you and Iz—Dr. Stevens have become close these past few weeks..."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that's what I've heard, sir." George said tightly.

"And, why, exactly does it concern you, Dr. O'Malley?" Mark crossed his arms a little annoyed at the intrusion to his personal life as well as being intrigued as to where O'Malley was going with this topic of conversation.

"It concerns me, Dr. Sloane, because Izzie is one of my best friends—

"--Really? It appears to me that you haven't been much a friend to her lately."

George's eyes narrowed and Mark could tell he was trying to control his temper. "It's true that we . . . we haven't exactly seen eye to eye lately—"

"--because of your wife…" Mark found that he had to interject that in there.

George went on, ignoring his last comment. "And despite it all, sir, I love Izzie. She's my family and when you're family you have rough times…but…but you get through it…"

Mark suddenly found that his words had hit remarkably close to home and he had wished that in his case they were true.

". . . and when you're family, sir, you're there for each other, especially when they're hurting. But sometimes…you can't help that person, even though you want to, what they need you can't give them . . ."

"Where is this going, O'Malley? I'm not entirely following you." Mark's interest was piqued and he found himself very curious as to what O'Malley was trying to say.

"Do you know what today is, sir?"

"It's the fifteenth. Why?"

George looked him fully in the eye. "Tomorrow is the sixth month anniversary of Denny Duquett's death, sir."

And suddenly the reason for their little chat started to make sense.

"I take it she didn't tell you?"

"No, she didn't," he said softly.

"She wouldn't . . . things like that, things that hurt her, she keeps to herself. You wouldn't think that Izzie would be the type to close herself off…but she can and I'm afraid she's doing that again." George cleared his throat and met his eyes again. "I just wanted you to know . . ."

"Thank you, for the heads up. I'll try to do what I can for her…" He said softly and judging from the intern's body language, their conversation wasn't yet finished. "Is there anything else, O'Malley?"

Mark watched as George looked down at his shoes as if he was trying to choose his words carefully and waited for him to speak. "She's smiling a lot more lately." He looked up then. "I mean really smiling. For the longest time, she would smile, but, it wouldn't reach her eyes…" George paused and looked at him. "When she smiles, and I mean truly smiles, she gets these little crinkles around her eyes and her eyes are like, like…"

"Like lightening bugs that come out in the summer… her eyes light up like that . . . they twinkle…" Mark dropped off, surprised by his words.

George looked at him quietly, as if trying to assess him, and Mark found that he couldn't quite look him in the eyes. He was reeling over comparing the smile in Izzie's eyes to lightening bugs and _twinkles_. Just when had he gotten so damn poetic?

"I . . . would have never thought to compare it like that, but, yeah…ahem," George cleared his throat which only slightly embarrassed Mark more. "But now that you described it like that…it's perfect. But it's been good, you know, to see her smiling like that. None of us have been able to do that for her these last few months . . . but you seem to be able to do it."

Mark met his gaze, and tried to ignore the fluttering of hope in his blood. He didn't know how to respond, so he stayed silent, trying to figure out his own surprising reactions brought about from this conversation.

George lifted his head and took a step closer to Mark, looking him squarely in the eye.

"I don't know exactly what's going between you two. I don't know if you're just friends or if you're wanting more from her. But whatever you do, just . . . don't hurt her"

He turned his head sharply to George and met his eyes. There was no judgment for his past sins in the younger man's eyes, only acknowledgement of Mark's present role in Izzie's life. It was strange to see it in her friend's eyes, when he, himself, was unsure as to what exactly was going on between the two.

"I won't."

George O'Malley nodded his acceptance and belief in Mark's promise to protect the feelings of a very fragile, special woman. And for the first time in his life, he believed in his promise, too.

Mark watched the younger man walk away from him and made a decision. Turning to the nurse at the nurse's station he said, "Hey, Becky. You wouldn't happen to have the intern's schedule for tomorrow would you?"

Becky riffled through some papers and smiled as she handed him the papers, "Here it is, sir."

"Thank you." He gave her a smile and looked over the schedule looking for one name in particular. Having found it, he turned to the nurse again. "Becky, would you be a doll and hand me the phone?"

She gave him another grin and he winked at her knowing she would eat up the attention. Dialing his extension number, he waited for his secretary to answer.

"Dr. Sloane's office, this is Sherry speaking. How may I help you?"

"Sherry, its Mark . . . listen, I need you to clear my schedule for tomorrow. Something important has come up."

* * *

Reviews are serious love people...let me know what you think. 


	10. Chapter 10

Here it is, guys, chapter 10! And I just have to say that there are some MAJOR developments in this little chapter….like monumental developments. Seriously, seriously huge. So…in order to get me to write chapter 11, you simply MUST review. Consider it a bribe, or blackmail, or whatever. My artistic ego is ravenous! And please forgive all of the spelling and grammatical errors. It hasn't been beta'd.

I hope you enjoy it…I know I enjoyed writing it.

Only Shonda and ABC own the characters of Grey's Anatomy. It's a shame, really.

Chapter 10: Prime Real-Estate

His hands slipped off of the wood-grain and leather steering wheel and fell deftly to his lap as his eyes focused on the front door of the home that Izzie Stevens shared with Meredith Grey. He wasn't sure exactly what kind of reaction he was going to get from Izzie when she saw him, today of all days. He could only predict her emotions, kind of like the local weather man predicting Seattle's weather (which in his opinion was a rather easy job, since all it seemed to do was rain in this God forsaken city.) Izzie would either a.) yell at him to 'get the hell out and leave her the hell alone", b.) wear out Grey's oven by her nonstop baking, or c.) she would … well, he wasn't really sure what kind of action would take place with option c. And if he were honest with himself, (which lately, he found himself being rather often…) he was rather terrified of the unknown. Izzie was unpredictable like that; she was a lot like the old cliché "as unpredictable as the weather." She could go from being a blue cloudless sky, full of sunshine that warmed the darkest corner of your crummy, bleak soul and then suddenly change in a blink of a moment where the skies were ominously grey and black, with a downpour of rain drops so brittle they touched every nerve. She was magnificent like that.

And it didn't help that he found himself with a case of nerves. Which, in his opinion, was odd, if one knew him; there was one thing that was a constant: Mark Sloane did not get nervous around women. He was a skilled maestro with the female sex. With a flick of his wrist, and a curve of his finger, he could conduct any female to keep time with him, and swell to crescendos that were so powerful, so lyrical they touched one to the very core of their being, like one of Beethoven's many symphonies. He was that good.

But, it seemed, that once again, all of his knowledge of the ladies flew out of that metaphorical window, as he tried to grow the balls to go to Isobel Stevens. He'd seen her angered and passionate, her eyes full of laughter, and he'd held her crumpled body shaking with sobs over the loss of her dead fiancé. It was something he hadn't wanted to revisit anytime soon. He hated female tears. They made him uncomfortable and unsure. And one thing he'd discovered recently was the fact that he hated seeing those warm rivulets of salty water fall from a certain pair of doe brown eyes. It was something that he found he just couldn't take. It was strange and foreign, and altogether miserable. Just the idea of her floating in misery made him want to float down that river of misery right along with her.

It was a truth that was incredibly unsettling and new, and one that would have made him turn around and run if he was the old Mark. But he wasn't the old Mark. He's the new Mark and so, here he was at 8:30 in the morning, sitting alone in his car, staring at Izzie Stevens' front door, trying to formulate a plan of how to make this day just a little bit easier for her.

His eyes suddenly slid to his blackberry resting in the console between the seats and an idea began to take shape. It was something that he had briefly considered and toyed with, he'd even made a call or two, but at the time he was rather unsure of the idea. But, now, as his eyes slid back to the Craftsman style house that one blonde inhabited, he was sure.

He scrolled through the numbers in his address book until he found the one he was looking for. Pressing the "call" button, he waited until he heard a familiar voice.

"Yes, Steven. This is Dr. Mark Sloane, I talked to you a few weeks ago…yes, I'm doing fine thank you. Listen, I know that this is very short notice, but I would like to see what you have to offer…today. Yes, I know it's last minute…would 10:30 work? Fantastic. Thank you. I'll see you then."

Hanging up the phone, his eyes slid back to the house, as his hand took the keys out the ignition. He now had the perfect plan to help Izzie Stevens lighten her emotional load. Now, all he needed to do was persuade her to go along with it.

* * *

"Iz…?"

He stood next to Meredith Grey outside of Izzie's room, while she knocked on the door. They waited anxiously holding their breaths for an acknowledgement of their disturbance from the woman inside the shelter of her room. Meredith's blue gray eyes met his as she shrugged her shoulders.

He knew that he had surprised her when she'd opened the door to find him standing on her front porch, but the surprise had quickly turned into a look of relief as she grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. She'd briefly told him that she hadn't seen her roommate yet, since she liked to sleep in on her days off, and that she was very reluctant to wake Izzie just to check on her mental state and to remind her that today was the sixth month anniversary of Denny's death in the process. He didn't blame her, but he promptly told Meredith that he needed to see her, because after all, the two of them had a schedule to keep.

That had only received a pointed look of incredulity, but she led him up the stairs to Izzie's room. And there the two of them were, waiting for a reply from the woman behind the closed door. Meredith knocked again.

"Izzie, sweetie, are you awake?"

The both leaned in to tying to hear a response, any kind of response. Mark found himself waiting with baited breath and rolled his eyes. This was getting ridiculous. He turned to Meredith, "Is the door locked?"

"I don't know. Probably not. I haven't really checked. I respect my roommate's right to privacy," she said to him with an arched eyebrow.

Mark only rolled his eyes in return. Lifting his fist, he pounded on the door three times. "Izzie, I'm counting to three and I'm coming in!"

He turned the knob. It wasn't locked. Good…this made his job easier. "ONE… TWO…" and Mark opened the door and barged into to Izzie's room, to find her hopping out of bed in nothing but a white tank top and a pair of red panties.

"Good God! Haven't you any decency!?" Izzie yelled at him as she grabbed a pillow to cover herself. He watched as she narrowed her eyes at him. "What happened to counting to three THEN coming in?"

Mark smirked. "It's all in the element of surprise. I was hoping you're one of those 'sleep in the buff' types and that'd I'd finally get to at least see one of your boobs."

She rolled her eyes at him and looked at her roommate, accusingly, as she started searching her floor for something. "Why did you let him in here?"

Mark picked up a pair of pink flannel bottoms with dancing poodles on them and snickered. "Looking for these?" He laughed inwardly as Izzie grabbed them out his hands and narrowed her eyes at him once more.

"He wanted to see you." Meredith simply shrugged and turned around. "I have to get to work. Bailey said I could come in at 9:30 today since I stayed overtime last night. I better get going. Um, if you…if you need anything, just call me..."

"I'll be fine…tell…everyone that I'll be fine…" Izzie's words dropped off and she immediately began picking up her pillows to make up her bed. Mark's eyes traveled to Izzie and saw that her shoulders were set with tension.

"Well, um…ok, then. I'm off. I'll see you later."

Mark met Meredith's eyes before she left the room and nodded at her, letting her know that he had everything under control. His eyes turned back to the busy blonde and watched her as she picked up her room. He propped his hip against her desk and waited for her to speak. He was going to follow her lead until he found the perfect opening to put his plan into action.

His eyes surveyed the room, taking in the décor of Izzie's personal space. Her room was a light coral color and had random paintings and photos placed against the walls. It was obvious that every piece in her room was distinctively individual instead of a "set" and was rather a hodge podge of furniture. It worked and made the space uniquely hers. He turned to the desk and picked up a photo in a wooden frame. It was a candid shot of the rag-tagged team of interns, all five of them, out on the town it seemed. They were laughing, all with smiles that were bright . . . especially hers. Her face was the only facing the camera, her hair up in some sort of style and her lips were a bright red. Just her image captured in the photo demanded attention first, which wasn't much unlike the woman in the flesh.

"Don't you have surgeries today, Mark?" She asked grumpily as she turned to him after putting her last pillow back into it's proper spot. She had bed head, her curls large from her head's contact with a pillow, and she didn't have a stitch of make up on. He couldn't help but smile inwardly at just how cute and cranky she was this morning. "I thought you had Mr. Archfield's wife's breast implants today…"

His eyebrow quirked at that and placed the picture back in it's spot. "You're remembering my surgeries now, Iz? I'm impressed."

She gave him an annoyed look. "No, I just happen to remember that one because you kept talking about how hot she was and 'how it was an injustice for a woman her age to be married to a man in his seventies'…It disgusted me, so I remembered."

"Well, it turns out that she had to cancel because of some surprise trip to the Hamptons that she just couldn't pass up…she reschedule it for next month. And it is an injustice to see a young woman married to a dried up old crone like Archfield…"

"You better watch out…that's the man that owns the hotel you're staying at," she said as she shoved her feet into bunny slippers.

"Bunny slippers, Stevens? How old are you, twelve?" He asked laughing.

Izzie cut her eyes at him. "Yes, bunny slippers. They were a Christmas gift from George."

Mark snickered.

Izzie went on, indignant. "And…don't you know you're never supposed to ask a lady her age…"

She went out into the hall and Mark got up to follow her. She eyed him suspiciously. "Did Meredith ask you to stay with me today? Because you don't have to…I'm fine. I don't need someone to baby-sit me. I'm an adult."

Mark looked at her confused. He decided to play innocent. Izzie had never mentioned the date of Denny's death to him, they'd talked about him about very little. The only things he knew about their relationship was the information he'd gained from hospital gossip and that little bit she'd told him that night on the bench, the night that had started this unique relationship between the two.

"Well, that's good to know, but I actually came by because I need a favor…" He said as he stopped at the bathroom door and leaned against the doorjamb. Izzie's hand paused as she reached for her toothbrush and her eyes turned to him in a look of subtle disbelief and interest.

"What kind of favor? Because I'm not really in the mood to perform any sexual favors at the moment…you know, since I was so rudely awakened and all…" Izzie said as she put her toothbrush covered with toothpaste in her mouth.

Mark didn't bother hiding his laughter. "No, little Miss Pervert, not that kind of favor, but I may take you up on one of those later…I need the advice and expert opinion of one who's lived in this area her entire life…"

Izzie spit out the foaming paste and turned to him. "What for?"

"Well, I need to find a place to live. I've decided to permanently relocate to Seattle." He watched as Izzie paused her brushing and turned to him in surprise yet again.

"Why? I thought you hated it here…"

Mark slapped a hand over his chest and said sarcastically, "You wound me, Stevens. Couldn't you pretend to even be a little bit happy? Now you'll get to see my handsome face from now on."

"Oh, shut up." She spit out her toothpaste and rinsed out her mouth and turned to him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why are you really doing this . . ." Her eyes grew large. "You're not doing this because you're still hung up on Addison are you? Gah, I swear, Mark we've been over this a million times. You know that she doesn't want—

"Izzie!" Mark yelled her name exasperated, wanting to stop her on her rant about the reasons why Addison no longer wanted him. "No, I am not doing this because of Addison. That ship has long since sailed. It's probably down by the tip of South America now."

"Good." She said simply as she grabbed her brush and started to work the tangles out her hair. Mark was content to just watch her. He didn't know what it was about watching a woman primp, but he'd loved it, ever since he was a little boy watching his mother get ready for a night out for one of her many social functions.

"So, why are you staying then?" She winced as her brush came across a snarl.

"I'm staying because . . . I have a lot of opportunities here. Richard's incredibly supportive of any endeavor I wish to pursue and the surgical unit has become one of the best in the country as you may well know…" His eyes met hers in the mirror. "…and for other reasons."

She held his gaze. "Ah . . . you want to throw your name in for Chief of Surgery then?"

Mark tore his gaze from hers and looked down at his shoes. _That's one of the reasons. _"Maybe or maybe not. I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

He heard her snicker softly and he returned his eyes to hers. "What . . . you don't think I could do it? You don't think I'd make a good Chief?"

She turned around and propped her hip against the counter, connecting her eyes with his. She smiled at him softly. "I think you've got it in you."

Something swelled inside of him, leaving him breathless for just a moment. There she was…his sunny and cloudless sky, warming him to his innermost depths. Seriously, he had to stop with all the warm, feely metaphors. He was losing his edge. He cleared his throat, "Well, that's good, because I need to find an apartment. And I need you to help me."

"Me? Why me?" She asked, rather surprised.

"Weren't you listening? I need someone who knows the area, who can tell me the hot neighborhoods, and if I'm being screwed over or not."

She looked at him with disbelief. "Mark, if anyone was going to get screwed over, I have a feeling you wouldn't be the one getting screwed."

Mark's eyes narrowed at her. Now she was dark and ominous skies. "You're quite bitchy in the mornings. It doesn't suit you."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Lovely. I'm glad you brushed your teeth so I don't have to smell your bad breath."

He watched as a satisfied smile grew over her lips. "I'm going to get in the shower now."

"Is that an invitation?" His voice dropped to a low pitch as a sly smile formed on his lips.

She sauntered up to him, grabbing a towel behind him while her other hand lowered a strap of her tank top. Stopping just in front of him, she whispered as she placed her now free hands on his chest, "You'll just have to dream, because it's never going to happen."

Mark was promptly pushed out of the bathroom and the door shut in his face. "Make sure you're ready by 10:00!" He yelled through the door with a smile on his face.

* * *

Mark was growing exhausted and his nerves were wearing thin. They were standing outside of a tall building of just one of the many apartments/condos/town homes, etc, his realtor had dragged them to. Well…they hadn't been dragged, exactly. Steven had just taken them to every "prime area" in Seattle looking for a place that Dr. Mark Sloane could potentially call home, which translating in realtor talk, mean that he had a potential high commission for the savvy realtor.

But none of them had been "just right" according to Izzie. She gave her opinions freely which honestly had surprised him at first. She'd caught things that he'd never have thought of to notice. But after the third place shown to him, and one that he'd actually somewhat liked, she had rather confidently said "hmm…this is better than the last one, but don't you have one better for Dr. Sloane? This is a little shabby." Both he and the realtor had to bite their tongues. For a girl who grew up in a trailer park, the chick had discriminating tastes when it came to finding him a home.

And after the fourth one shown to them had received a failing mark, he'd dragged her into the half bath, and had a few words with her. He was actually rather proud of himself for keeping his mouth shut for so long, but after her snide remark about the color of tile used in the back splash in the kitchen, he'd lost it. He'd told her that he was the one shelling out the money for the place and that if he wanted an apartment with beige colored tile back splash and dark green granite counter tops, then he'd get it. And to that, she simply replied, "Fine. But you'll have one of the ugliest kitchens ever."

And she'd been silent for the last twenty minutes as they made their way to the next property. Silence from Izzie Stevens was something he'd never thought he'd experience. And he had to admit, that right in that moment, he was enjoying it.

"This is The Cosmopolitan, as you can tell it's right in the heart of the city, just a few blocks from Pike Place Market, some of the hottest restaurants, and other city attractions. The Cosmopolitan has two clubrooms, a fitness area, as well as a rooftop area that houses a pool. Now, the unit I'm about to show you has the most phenomenal views of the city. Would you like to see it now?"

"Yes, I'd love to." He looked to Izzie and let her walk before him. The lobby was spectacularly decorated with a contemporary style in warm hues of dark browns, golds, and reds, marble floors, and stainless steel accents. Judging by the lobby, he could tell instantly he was going to like the unit he was about to see.

"The unit we're going to look at today is on the 34th floor, it's a two bedroom, two bath penthouse. It's one of the only ones left," Steven said to them as they got on the elevator.

"I hope you're not afraid of heights," Izzie muttered under her breath.

Mark slid his eyes towards her. "I lived in the Trump Tower in Manhattan. Of course I'm not afraid of heights."

The realtor opened the door for them and stepped aside to allow them into the apartment. Izzie stopped short, nearly causing him to bump into her.

"Oh, my God! This is…" She stopped and turned to him, awe written all over her face.

Mark found he was speechless as well. They had stepped into a room surrounded with windows offering panoramic views of the city. It was spacious and open, and absolutely beautiful. The floors were made of a medium toned, warm oak, and there was a fire place. He loved fire places.

"I have to say this is one of the best views of the city," Steven said coming up behind him. "If you look to your left, you can see the Space Needle and over there, to you right, you can see Mt. Ranier and the Puget Sound. Incredible, isn't?"

"Yes, it is," he said softly as he took in the city before him, covered in the soft glow of the afternoon sun.

"Look at the kitchen!" His eyes went to Izzie who had made her way behind the counter and was running her hands over the smooth grey granite. The kitchen was modern with dark cabinets, stainless steel and top of the line appliances, set against a black slate back splash. "This kitchen is every cook's dream…"

He went over and joined her behind the counter. "Yeah, it is. Too bad I don't cook."

She cut her eyes at him and laughed. He turned to his left and pointed, "Oh, thank God, there's a wine cooler."

"Ah, yes, because a wine cooler is an absolute must," she said sarcastically.

"You know it…and did you see the wet bar over there? I gotta have my wet bar."

She chuckled. "You really are such an alcoholic."

"Would you two like to see the rest of the penthouse now?" Steven's question quieted them as they turned to look at him in surprise. Mark had forgotten he was there.

"Yes, that'd be great."

The two of them followed him into the other rooms that were equally impressive. The master bedroom and bath had instantly sold him. The rooms were spacious, with clean lines, and decorated in a color palate that was extremely his style. He'd laughed out loud when Izzie's eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw the closet. It was impressive and in her own words, "almost orgasmic."

Even he was shocked at just how much bang for the buck he was getting. Housing was so expensive back in Manhattan. In Seattle, he was going to get a place twice the size of his in New York and for half the price.

They were now following the realtor up to the rooftop to take in the views. Steven turned to them once they walked out into the open air and took in the view of the city around them. "I'm going to give you some time to think about the property. I'm going to go back down into the unit to make a phone call to one of my partners. If you need me, that's where I'll be."

It was just the two of them now, alone on the roof. He stood in his place as he watched Izzie walk to the railing and lean against it, her back to him. All that he could see of face was her profile, touched by the afternoon sunlight. The wind was blowing her curls and he watched as one of her hands lifted to tuck one of the strands behind her ears.

He never really had an opinion on curly or straight hair before. He'd just known that he loved hair in vibrant colors. His mother's was jet black, shiny and silky, from her father's Italian roots. He'd inherited his father's light, sandy colored brown hair, which he'd always thought was kind of boring. But he'd always loved women's hair, the softness of it, the smell. Addison's was a vibrant red. He'd seen it go from brown, to blonde, and back to red again. She said she hated her red hair, but she always came back to her natural color and he knew that she thought her hair was her crowning glory, though she'd never admit it.

And now he was studying Izzie's hair. It was blonde, and he'd never really paid much attention to blonde hair before, partly because most of the blondes he'd encountered were really brunettes, and he guessed he'd never been turned on by the color, mostly due to the fact that most of the time, the blonde color came from a bottle. Yet, he had a strong feeling that her hair color was the real deal.

He closed the distance between them and stood next to her, leaning against the railing. His eyes were once again drawn to hair. He saw the light shine on the different colors varying from a dark honey, to caramelized wheat, to a light cream, all woven together creating a beautiful palate of gold. He liked the way the sun reflected off of her strands.

She turned her face towards him and taking him in as if she was studying him, and she looked as if she wanted to say something. He could see her mind trying to decide if she wanted to speak her mind or keep quiet. Nudging her with his elbow, he encouraged her silently.

"I'm glad . . . that you, um. . ." She paused and he heard her laugh softly to herself before turning to him and connecting her eyes with his.

"You're glad about what . . . ?" He prodded softly.

"I'm glad that you're staying . . . in Seattle." He watched as she rubbed her hands over her arms to fend off the slight chill from the breeze and waited for her to continue on, barely breathing. "You know . . . you and I . . .we get each other. It's so weird, but, we do. I mean . . . you're egotistical and you can be an ass, and you can piss me off like no other, but . . . you get me. Like today. . . .all I wanted to do today was to stay in my bed, but you dragged me out, to go on an apartment hunt, and you completely took my mind off of everything . . ."

He felt his heartbeat speed up at her words.

"I haven't once felt sad or sorry for myself, since I've been with you. You've aggravated and annoyed me, and you've somehow managed to make me laugh . . . " she looked at him, her eyes warm and she moved closer to him as she hooked one of her arms around his, " . . . you've just made me _feel _. You don't know how long it's been since I've felt anything but emptiness . . .And I haven't felt empty one time that I've been with you."

Her words dropped off as one tear, followed by another fell down her cheeks, and her watery brown eyes met his. "This has been one hell of a year and I've nearly lost it all . . . and it's been really hard dealing with it all . I've tried to be strong, to keep it all together. But I can't help but feel like I've lost a little bit of me through it all."

He lifted his hand to her face and wiped away her tears and noticed just how soft her skin felt under his fingers. He wanted to say something, anything, but he found that he'd lost his capability of speech. And so, he just stood there, and cradled her face with one of his hands.

"You help me to forget." Her breath was soft and warm against his palm, her lips tickling his hand as she spoke. "So, you see . . . I don't know what I'd have done if you'd gone back to New York." Her eyes turned to him, seeking something and so full of different emotion.

"Izzie . . ." He found he was only able to whisper her name. The weight of her words rested heavily on him as he took in her meaning. She needed him. She needed him to make her forget her pain of the last sixth months and she needed him to make her smile and laugh.

It'd been so long since he'd been simply . . . needed.

He watched as her eyes traveled to his lips and he felt every nerve in his body come alive. Her hand let go of his and he felt her smooth palm run up his arm, caressing him, as it made its way to his shoulder, the other following. He nearly groaned as he felt her fingertips slid up against the skin of his neck and tangling themselves in his hair, pulling his face towards hers, his lips colliding against hers.

Her kiss was warm, passionate, and slow, leaving him senseless. His hands went to her waist and pulled her against him roughly, having to have her against him, his arms encircling her, molding her against him.

His action elicited a moan from her lips and she clung tighter to him, intensifying their kiss. This kiss was nothing like this one she laid on him in the bar. That had been hot, fast, and with the intent of exerting power. But this one . . . this one was entirely different. It was incredibly intense and full unbridled emotion, but it was more about lust and passion. This kiss was born out of need; a need for the other to help them cope, to forget, to cleanse the wounds.

And it wasn't enough for him.

He pulled away sharply and pushed her body away from his, dropping his hold from her. Her lips were swollen red, and her eyes were a dark chocolate colored with desire that was quickly turning to confusion.

"Mark . . . what's wrong? Did I . . . do something wrong?"

His hands itched to touch her, but instead he clinched his fists and held them to his side. "I can't kiss you . . . not like this, Izzie."

"I . . . I don't understand. You seemed to be enjoying yourself . . ."

"Believe me I was . . ." He dropped off and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He moved away from her not able to stand so close to her.

"Well, then . . . why'd you stop?" He could hear the frustration growing in her voice.

He had to ask her. He had to know. "Why did you kiss me?"

" _Why did I_ . . . are you serious!? You're asking me why I kissed you?" Her voice was growing louder with every word.

"Yes! I want to know why you kissed me!"

"What does it matter why I kissed you? Come on, Mark . . . you're McSteamy. You're not supposed to complain when a woman kisses you. You're supposed to shut up and actively participate, remember?"

His eyes narrowed at her and shook his head, saying more to himself than her, "Not anymore. I'm done with that."

She scoffed. "Oh, so you're reformed now? Just when did that happen?"

"I'm not sure exactly, but I'd say it happened within the last couple of weeks." His eyes sought hers. And he knew how it came about and why. He knew exactly why.

He watched as her brows lowered in uncertainty and as myriad of different thoughts played through her mind, all clearly showing in her dark eyes. His eyes followed her movements as she wrapped her arms around her torso, and he was wishing that it was his arms that wrapped around her instead of her own, but he stayed rooted to his spot.

"Why . . . within the last couple of weeks?" He heard her ask meekly.

His blues eyes burned into hers. "I think you know why."

"Because . . . of . . . me?" She shook her head in confusion. "So you're trying be noble now?" She started to pace in an angry circle. "That must be it . . . why else would you stop kissing me. 'Oh! Can't kiss that girl, she's got a dead fiancé. She's damaged goods!"

He grabbed her and made her face him. "Do you think it was easy for me to stop kissing you? Because let me tell you sweetie, it wasn't. If I had my way you'd be panting my name right now . . ."

"Well, then why did you stop? Maybe you can clarify that for me because I'm just a little confused by your logic!"

"You see, Izzie, you're a brat and a pain in my ass. You boss me around and tell me what's constantly wrong with my life. It's annoying . . . unbelievably annoying!" He saw that she was getting offended, but he rushed on. "But somehow, you've come to mean an awful lot to me. I don't know how you did it, but you did. You just bulldozed your way into my life and now, I just can't seem to get it back to normal. And you know what's really crazy about it all, Izzie? It's that I don't want to! And it scares the hell out of me!" She tried to break free from his grasp, but he held on tight, wanting, no needing to lay it all on the line for her.

Mark closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had to make her see, to understand.

"Izzie . . . the next time we kiss, I want it to be because I am the only man you're thinking about. I'm tired of it, all, Izzie. I'm so tired of never coming first and always ending up the odd man out. I've played sloppy seconds one too many times and I don't think I can do it to the memory of your fiancé." He dropped his hands from her arms and just stood there, his eyes beseeching hers. "Please, Izzie, don't ask me to do it again."

He hadn't intended on sharing so much with her, not today of all days, but he knew that once the gates were open, there was no way of keeping in this flood of his truths inside of him. He'd held in so many of his emotions for so long and it'd got him nowhere. And now, all he could do for his sanity's sake, was to come clean and expose it all.

And now he was standing, in front of a woman who had come to mean so much to him so quickly, that it had nearly blinded him. He bared it all for her, not really sure of what her reaction would be or if she'd even have one. He'd been weighted down all those years by suppressing his emotions, but now, standing on the roof top of a high rise in the middle of down town Seattle, he'd never felt so free or light, despite his fear of rejection. He'd been honest and it felt good.

She was standing there silent, not meeting his eyes, and all he wanted to do was touch her. Lifting his hand, he cupped her cheek, not denying the swell of hope that was born when she closed her eyes and the small sigh that escaped from her lips.

"I know . . . that I've laid a lot on you, that it's a lot to process. So, the ball is your court now. I'm not asking you to completely forget Denny, I could never ask you to do that. But what I'm asking for is a chance, just one chance . . . I need to know if I have a shot, and you're going to have to tell me . . ." Her eyes flew to his in panic and he gave her a broken smile. "No, not today. I couldn't ask that of you. I want you to be sure, because Izzie, if you give me the green light, I'm going to do everything in my power to win your heart . . ."

He brushed the stray hairs out of her eyes and placed a kiss on her forehead, before resting his against hers. "And, I swear to you, Iz, if you take a chance on me, you'll never regret it . . ."

The sound of an opening door, tore their bodies apart, but their eyes stayed connected to one another. The realtor's voice rang out through the air. "So, Dr. Sloane, have you made a decision?"

Never taking his eyes of Izzie, he answered. "Yes, I'd like to place an offer for it this afternoon." He grabbed her hands and lifted one to his mouth and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles. "I'm here, Iz and I'm here to stay."

* * *

_So, um, what did you think of IT!? And by "it," you know what I mean! Hee hee. I hope you were happy with it. Let me know! Review!!!_


	11. Chapter 11

Goodness, folks, I can't believe that I have written _this_ chapter or that this story has gotten to this point--the last chapter. Can you believe it!? I know that I'm still slightly surprised. All I can say is that this chapter went through some major re-writes until I got it to where it felt good in my bones. I really hope that you all love it. I know that the alert system hasn't been working...I just hope that all of you who have been reading this story will get a chance to read it. Now, as far as an epilogue goes, I do have an idea for one, but to be frank, I'm not sure if it will happen. I just have to play around with my ideas and if I'm happy with the finished product, I may post it. And I won't lie, a little convincing from my readers wouldn't hurt. Hee hee. I'm evil and I'm selfish. So, as of right now, consider this the last chapter until I make up my mind.

I hope you are as satisfied with this chapter as I am. I tried to make it as true to the two characters that I have grown to love as much as I possibly could. Seriously, let me know what you think.

It's been fun and thanks to all of the reviews. You're kind words have really meant a lot to me!

All characters belong to Shonda and ABC

* * *

Chapter 11: Rhythm

_Tap. Tap. Tappity tap tap_.

Her fingers tapped an agitated rhythm against the cool Formica counter top of the nurses' station as her eyes danced back and forth between _him_ and her patients' chart. She hadn't spoken to him for one week, three days, fourteen hours, and twenty-eight minutes since he'd dropped her off and she'd slammed the passenger's side door to his black Mercedes, scrambled to her house, and locked herself in her room for a whole day listening to nothing but Indie rock music. Lately, she'd been in the mood for nothing but Indie rock music.

She'd also done a lot of baking in that one week, three days, fourteen hours and…She glanced at her watch…twenty-nine minutes. Chocolate chip cookies, brownies, key lime pie, even a caramel cake, and muffins . . . lots and lots of muffins. But no chocolate cake…she'd suddenly lost all desire for her grandmother's famous chocolate cake. The last time she'd wanted to bake a chocolate cake was, well, when she had made it with _him…_that night. She hadn't had a craving since.

_Him. The man that shall remain nameless._

Just how could he do that to her…turn her world upside down like that? It had all started when the two of them were standing on the roof with the sun setting, and him deciding to sputter off words so passionate, so beautiful, and so terrifying for her to hear.

It completely disrupted the balance that had been so carefully built between them… a lot of sarcasm, sexual innuendos, honesty, laughter, and aggravation. They'd become friends, a tag team pair, and he'd also come to mean a great deal to her, despite his annoying tendencies like always having to hold the remote control when they watched TV or constantly channel surfing through radio stations when they were in the car, and him always having to drive . . . everywhere (She didn't really mind being chauffeured around, she just had to complain about it out of principle.)

But, honestly, why did he have to go and be so…knight in shining armor like?

Izzie slammed the chart closed and let out a frustrated sigh. Her eyes cut to him again. He was standing in front of the surgical board with Burke and Shepard, laughing. Laughing! Her eyes narrowed. How could he stand there, looking so carefree and _normal,_ while she'd spent countless nights, tossing and turning, replaying the words of his declaration over and over in her head? (Well not really _countless_. She'd spent ten long nights cursing the overly handsome and overly sexed plastic surgeon until the break of dawn while replaying those words in her head! Honestly, she'd always been good at multi-tasking, but she was exhausted…she needed to give her taxed mind a break.) She'd almost t ran out of cover up trying to hide the dark circles under her swollen eyes that she like to think were a direct result of _him _. . . and well . . . the kiss, too.

She'd been replaying that kiss in her mind like in slow motion, kind of like what those sports casters did on ESPN whenever there was an awesome play that had been made in a game. _That_ was another thing ruined. She used to love watching ESPN…especially with him. Now she considered the sports network to be in the same category as her grandmother's chocolate cake.

Really, in all honesty, it wasn't _entirely _his fault, if she must be fair. She'd been the one who initiated the kiss which therefore prompted him to declare his intentions. And she'd liked it . . . a lot. Ok, alright--she had more than just liked it. She'd fully enjoyed it, basked in it, and got lost in it. She couldn't maker herself stop thinking about it.

He really was an amazing kisser.

Her eyes traveled down to his lips, watching them form words and then twist into that trademark little smirk of his. It was slow . . . confident . . . and sexy. Her eyes suddenly wanted to take in all of his face: his strong jaw, chiseled cheeks, and those blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled, giving his face character.

_Shit. _

He caught her looking at him.

She tore her eyes quickly away, and grabbed the chart, quickly walking in the opposite direction.

She hated him more than she had ever hated him before at that moment. She'd never felt so confused, so lost, or so torn before in her life. Just when she thought that she was about to be able to completely get her life back to normal, he had to go and change everything.

Izzie opened the door to the supply room, shut it, and locked it. Releasing a sigh, she closed her eyes and slid down to the floor.

"_Izzie, if you give me the green light, I'm going to do everything in my power to win your heart . . ."_

She could still hear his words echo throughout her mind; words that had stopped her heart and made her world spin out of orbit.

So why hadn't she given him the green light?

It wasn't because she wasn't attracted to him. She was . . . very much so, in fact. She always had been from the first moment she saw him. She'd just never acted on it. Well, except for the two times that _she_ had kissed _him._

Maybe it was because he was such an ass?

No, that wasn't the reason either. He was undoubtedly an ass. And somehow, it was a part of his charm. He'd say the most outlandish things that were border line rude and often times politically incorrect. He was honest and blunt. And she had found it utterly charming and refreshing…annoying, but still refreshing.

So, it wasn't because of a fatal personality flaw or his looks. His track record, maybe? No, his past sins didn't scare her because she had quite a few dastardly deeds in her closet as well.

"_Denny." _She sighed as she whispered his name.

She'd loved Denny Duquette like she'd never loved before. She'd fallen in love with his charisma and spirit. Even though he had been limited by his body's failings, he'd captured her heart with his strength and his vitality. He hadn't been afraid to love her, and she hadn't been afraid to give him her love.

She'd been confident that their love would last, that she'd be able to save him, and that he'd get better. He'd gotten his new heart and he'd live, they'd get married and have tons of babies.

Only, they weren't given a chance. The picturesque life she had imagined had simply been a dream that had turned into a nightmare.

It had felt as if her broken heart had been buried with him the day they laid his body to rest. The pain of his loss had almost been unbearable. It had felt as if she'd lost everything. She'd even almost given up her medical career because the pain had been too great and the risks she took had reaped such severe consequences.

She'd also thought that she'd never be able to love again or to even want to love. She'd believed that Denny's love, although it had been a short time that she had possessed it, would be enough for her life time.

And now she was faced with the realization that she may have been wrong. Maybe Denny's love hadn't been enough for her after all … maybe she needed something else, something more?

She had loved Denny with all of her heart, but he had died, leaving her behind to pick up the pieces of her broken heart and her shattered dreams. He'd been gone for six months and over that time she had had to rebuild her life, learn to cope, and forced to move on.

It had been difficult and she had to take it day by day, slowly and gently. Her friends had been there for her, to share her burden and to try to lessen her grief. They had all tried earnestly, but they hadn't been as successful as they had hoped.

But, it had all changed when Mark had waltzed his way into her life. They hadn't known one another well, but they both intertwined themselves into one another's lives, helping to suture their broken hearts with stitches made from the fibers of their friendship. It had surprised them both how easily they accepted the other and just how easily they had come to depend on one another so quickly and intensely.

It had been so natural, so effortless.

He had been exactly what she needed, and she believed that it was the same for him as well. She liked to believe that Denny was with her always, looking after her from Heaven. She knew that some may view her beliefs as juvenile and simple, but to her, she gained comfort. And believing that, she couldn't help but wonder if Mark was sent to her by Denny?

Would he approve of Mark and the place he developed in her life? Would he give her his blessing to pursue a relationship with this other man? She wiped away a fallen tear as she opened her eyes and she knew the answer to her questions.

_Yes._

The answer had come to her softly and gently, surrounding her like the whisper of a soft, warm breeze. She hugged her arms to her body, as she bit back a smile, freely letting the tears run down her face.

He had given her his blessing.

* * *

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ 

She stood there, clutching the strap of her tote, staring at his door. Even though she hadn't spoken to him in more than a week, she knew that he had moved into his recently purchased penthouse just days before. It had been the hot topic of the hospital, with speculations as to _why_ he was staying in Seattle when Dr. Montgomery had so neatly turned him down. Maybe it was the lovely Seattle weather that he was staying for? Or maybe it was because he had become a contender for Chief of Surgery?

Izzie had simply rolled her eyes at all of the speculations as to why Dr. Mark Sloane was staying in Seattle. She knew the real reason for his relocation to the city that gave birth to Starbucks. And she couldn't deny the shiver that ran up her spine when she thought about it.

She was the reason why he was staying.

She could only imagine what the gossipers would do with that bit of information. They'd have a field day with it, after they wiped away the looks of shock off their faces.

A brief grin appeared on her mouth, only to be replaced with worry as she bit her lip. She looked at her watch again. It was 2: 25 in the morning and she was tired, exhausted really after getting off of a thirty hour shift. Maybe she should just turn around and go home, get a good night's rest, and then talk to him later.

Her tired eyes traveled to his doorbell. Who was she kidding? She knew that she wouldn't be able to get any rest until she said her peace, spilled her guts, let the cat out of the bag. And to be completely honest, she just wanted to see him.

She lifted her hand shakily as her finger went to press the doorbell. She knew he was a heavy sleeper, so she kept punching it, eventually creating a rhythm. Her mind got lost in the short staccato beats she was creating when the door was suddenly yanked open to reveal a very tired, very annoyed looking Mark.

She pulled back her finger and stood there frozen, watching him rub the sleep out of his eyes.

She watched as surprise registered in his eyes as they washed over her. Suddenly all of her bravado abandoned her as she stood there, silent, more than likely resembling a deer caught in the head lights.

"Izzie, what are you doing here? It's almost 2:30 in the morning." He asked her tiredly, stifling a yawn.

She took in his appearance. He was wearing black pajama bottoms, with no shirt, and his hair was sticking up all over his head. She swallowed as she realized that this was the first time she'd ever seen him shirtless. He really _was_ steamy.

He stood there looking at her expectantly and she cleared her throat, realizing that she owed him an explanation for awakening him from his slumber. "I know that it's really late . . . but, I needed to see you."

She stood there as she saw emotion flicker in his eyes, his body suddenly becoming awake. He stood to the side, opening the door wider. "Come on in."

Izzie smiled nervously as she walked past him, not bothering to ignore the heat that radiated off of his body. Her nerves felt as if they had come to life, her senses suddenly sharpening. Oddly, her reaction to him didn't soothe her jitters, it only made it worse.

She walked into his new home and took in the space that they had found together. There were boxes everywhere, and very little furniture. He was still very much in the moving process.

She turned and looked at him. "Are you waiting on your furniture from New York to get here?"

She saw his eyes shift to the various moving boxes and back to her. "No, actually, I'm just going to buy things here, eventually."

She looked at him, surprised. "But you don't have any furniture! What are you sleeping on … a sleeping bag, a blow up mattress?"

He looked at her in disbelief, suddenly making Izzie feel rather idiotic. "Um, no, as soon as my offer was accepted I bought a bed and the necessary items I would need. I'm good at roughing it."

She looked at him, and raised her eyebrow at his comment. Somehow that simple phrase had her body come alive with awareness. She shook her head and walked to the kitchen, fully aware that his eyes were following her.

She opened the refrigerator door and scanned the appliance for food. A pack of beer, a box of left over pizza, bottled water, and three Chinese take out cartons. Typical bachelor. She turned around to find an amused grin on his face.

"Finding everything to your liking, Dr. Stevens?"

She lifted her eyes slowly to his. "Yes, I am, Dr. Sloane."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said softly, his voice sounding like music to her ears. She'd missed hearing his deep baritone and its rich timbre that was so warm and enchanting. There'd been too much silence between them over the last ten days. Silence that had been created from the space he had given her to make up her mind.

They looked at one another, separated by the kitchen island, their gazes heavy as they stood there, surrounded by the quiet of the night. She dropped her eyes as her hand started to run over the cool, smooth granite, tracing the different colored veins that ran through the solid surface.

His hand covered hers, stopping the nervous motions. "Izzie . . . why are you here?"

She didn't answer him. Her eyes stayed on the hand that was covering her own as her other hand twitched in resistance trying to fight the temptation to run her fingers over his knuckles.

He pulled his hand away from hers, causing her eyes to find his steady blue eyes. "I'm going to ask you again, Izzie . . . why are you here?"

She knew that he knew the reason for her late night appearance. Ire suddenly went through her, but she squashed it down. He wasn't going to make this very easy on her and truthfully, she didn't blame him.

She tried to find her voice, only to discover that it was somewhat timid. "I wanted to . . . no, I _needed_ to see you," she said softly, as her brown eyes connected with his. Looking into his light blue ones, she felt her nerves melt away as she saw the look of hope reflected in his blue depths. She walked around the counter and stood in front of him, taking in his face; one that had become so dear to her over the past month and a half.

"You're a real jerk, you know that?" She asked, the tone of her voice belittling her harsh words.

A wry grin spread over his mouth. "I've been told that once or twice."

She laughed softly to herself as she looked heavenward, trying to figure out how to express exactly what she wanted to say. "You know, I actually hated you this past week." She looked at him, to find interest in his eyes, as he stood there listening to her.

"I was so mad at you after the shock wore off from what you told me on the roof top. I just couldn't believe it all . . . I mean, what exactly gives you the right to come into my life, weasel your way into my affections, and then tell me that you're going to do everything in your power to make me fall in love with you . . . _but only_ if I give you permission?! Who does that?" She asked rhetorically, as frustration rang in her voice.

She took a deep breath, not looking at him, and went on talking, discovering that the words were coming out rather easily. "And on top of that, you have to be considerate by giving me _time _to figure out if it's something I want." She turned to him, becoming rather serious. "And let me tell you, that's when I really hated you. You made me face everything, Mark. All of my hurts, my fears, and even my guilt."

She turned her head, not able to look at him. She was afraid that if she looked into his eyes she wouldn't be able to hold all of her emotions in check. Finding that his close proximity was too much for her, she went to the windows and looked out across the Seattle skyline, trying to gain her bearings.

"I was afraid of letting myself love you," she began softly. "I was afraid that if I let myself fall in love with you, my relationship with Denny would have been all for naught." She turned around to look at him, knowing that she had to make him understand her feelings. "I didn't want my love for him and his death to have been in vain."

She watched as a shadow crossed over his eyes, his mouth setting into a thin line. He turned his face away from her as he spoke softly. "I think I know where you're going with this, so, let me just stop you before—

"No!" She rushed over to him and turned his face towards her, forcing his eyes to connect with hers. "No . . . I have to be heard. Just let me say this."

She waited for his response, not taking her hand away from his face. When he gave her a small nod, she continued. " Mark, I was holding onto Denny because I was afraid that if I loved you, then Denny would have meant nothing . . . but then I realized that I couldn't live my life holding on to a memory. I loved him and he taught me so much about how to love. It would be a shame to not honor that gift he gave me.

"These past ten days have been utter hell for me, Mark." His eyes seared into hers at hearing her words, letting her know wordlessly that he felt the same. She shortened the space between them in her sudden need to be closer to him.

"I've missed your crass jokes that you find hilarious but aren't really that funny; I've missed the sound of your laughter and how hearing it makes me smile. I've missed you stealing bites of my food when you think I'm not looking." Her hand reached up to his face, softly caressing it. "And that cologne that you wear…I've missed how it lingers on my clothes after you gather me in one of those obnoxious bear hugs of yours."

Her eyes bore into his, revealing all of her emotions. This time, she wasn't afraid to expose her heart to him. "I don't think I could handle not having you in my life."

She watched as he stood there silently, the muscles of his throat working as he was struggling with his emotions. She felt as his hand squeezed her elbows, and ran up her arms to clasp her hand in his.

"I need to know _exactly _whatyou're saying, Izzie," He said barely in a whisper as his eyes met hers, searching, she knew, for any kind of indication of how she felt towards him.

Her heart melted at his insecurity and she connected her eyes with his. "What I'm saying is that I'm giving you the green light."

Mark let out a deep breath and closed his eyes and she felt all of the tension melt out of his body. She moved closer, closing the gap between them, and wrapped her arms around him, as she gently rested her face in the crook of his shoulder. She inhaled his scent, taking in the familiarity of his smell of oriental woods, nutmeg, and musk, a combination uniquely him. She sighed as she felt his arms tighten around her and smiled at just how perfectly their bodies fit together. She didn't bother stifling her soft moan of contentment as she felt his fingers run through her hair.

"I swear it, Izzie…you're not going to regret giving me this chance to win you over…" His voice was soft but full of confidence.

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes once more. Her fingers found their way into his hair and she silently took pleasure in the feel of his thick wavy strands between her fingers. A smile was on her lips as she whispered, "You've already won me over, Mark."

His eyes washed over her reverently as his hands cupped her face, a simple gesture that touched Izzie to her core. "I'm in love with you, Izzie. I know, it's crazy . . . I haven't even taken you out on a real date yet, but, I'm not going to hide what I'm feeling. I've done it for far too long. . ."

Izzie closed her eyes at the sincerity and honesty of his emotions. She knew that he meant them down to the depths of her soul and as she opened her eyes to look into his, she saw her reflection in his eyes, the way he saw her, and was humbled by his love for her.

"You may not love me now, but—

Izzie's lips silenced his as she pulled him closer to her. She lost herself in the texture of his lips, his taste, and the sensation of having his muscular frame against her. This kiss trumped the other two in comparison. This one meant so much more and was given out of an emotion so pure, it nearly overwhelmed her.

She pulled back from him and caught her breath. "I swear, Mark, you can be so oblivious." A smile formed on her lips when she saw a questioning gaze in his eyes and she lifted a finger to wipe off some of her lip gloss off his lower lip.

"I'm falling for you, Mark." Her eyes met his again as her arms circled around his neck. She smiled at the joy in his eyes, knowing that the same emotion was shining in her own.

"You were right you know," she said softly, standing on her tip toes to place a line of kisses along his jaw.

She felt the rumble of his laughter through his chest as he squeezed her closer to him. She decided that she rather liked the feeling of being in his arms. "Oh, yeah? What I was I right about?"

She sighed as his lips sought hers and once again claimed her lips in a kiss. "That you can be very persuasive . . ."

"Mmm…sexy, great ass, and smart, too. It seems that I've caught me a mighty fine woman," he said as his lips left a trail of kisses down her neck.

Izzie let out a small moan. "And don't you forget that . . . "

"You do know . . . " he said in between kisses, " . . . that I'm playing for keeps, don't you?"

Izzie pulled away from him, to look him in the eyes as she considered his words, weighing her own. Softly she said, "You better because that's the only way I play."

Their eyes connected for a moment of intensity, each silently taking their claim of the other. Mark grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a kiss on her knuckles. "Good, we're on an even playing field then. What do you say to going to bed? I'm getting a little tired after being rudely awakened by some crazy lady ringing my doorbell."

Izzie laughed softly and relaxed into him. "That sounds like a great idea."

Mark pulled on her hand and she followed him, only to stop when he turned around and looked at her inquisitively. "So . . . 'the beast,' has she awakened from her slumber and is in need of being fed?"

Izzie's surprised laugh rang throughout the empty pent house. She tugged on his hand and led him into the bedroom. "I have a feeling that she'll be awake very, very soon."

"Just let me know, because I have a feeling I'll need all the endurance I can muster." He tossed a wink her way only making her want to grab onto him and hold him closer to her.

They made their way into his bedroom, their hands joined, and she smiled as he handed her the pajama top that matched his bottoms for her to sleep in. As she made her way to the bathroom, she stole one last look at him, only to find him watching her silently; his heated gaze sending a small flush to her cheeks. She entered the bathroom , changed quickly and caught her reflection in the mirror, stopping her in her haste to study the image before her. There she stood; swallowed whole by the soft black cotton of Mark's pajama top, glowing, her eyes warm, and a smile on her lips … she was completely and utterly happy. And she felt alive for the first time, in a long time.

She'd forgotten what an all encompassing high new love was like. Oh, she'd loved Denny. She'd loved him very much, but this new burgeoning _relationship _with Mark was different (and she had a feeling that Mark would accept nothing less than a full fledged relationship with. He really _had_ changed…) It was like nothing she'd ever experienced before and couldn't think of descriptions that would do her feelings for Mark justice.

She pulled the clip out of her hair and ran her fingers through her curls, and sighed contentedly. Were they moving too fast? Maybe. Did she want to slow down? No, not at all because if there was one thing that she'd learned from loving Denny, it was the fact that there just wasn't enough time in the world to spend with the person one loved. And she was falling in love with Mark. She wasn't going to try to deny it, only accept it, and she didn't want to waste another second with the man that was currently in his bed, waiting for her to join him.

She picked up her jeans and shirt, folding them both, and turned to open the door, flipping the light off on her way out. Tossing her clothing gently to the floor to rest beside her tote bag, she turned to see Mark lying on his side on the opposite side of the bed, his head propped against his hand, waiting for her.

She smiled at him and softly padded over to him, joining him in his large bed, and turned to face him. He reached over her, pulling the covers over her body and wrapped his arms about her, cradling her against him.

She closed her eyes as she felt his lips place a kiss on her forehead and snuggled deeper into the comfort he offered. As she was lulled to sleep by the soft, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a thought drifted through her mind. She'd been right about him. He did have a lot of love to give and he was offering his heart to her, which she knew was a huge step for Mark, and she would gladly take it, giving him her heart in return. And for the first time in a long time, she felt warm, content, cherished.

She had to admit, it felt _right_ to be in his arms.

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_ Please review!_


	12. Epilogue

Here it is, the epilogue of The Good Samaritan! I really hope you like it! I know it's taken awhile for me to write it, but that's because I've been busy and I didn't know what I wanted to do with it. I hope that you find it was worth the wait and that you enjoy it! Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story about two characters that I have come to love. I truly believe that Mark and Izzie would be fantastic together and would be give so much to one another. Thanks again for all of the kind words of encouragement!!!

This is dedicated to Team McStizzie! Thanks for inspiring me again…all of you!

_  
(This has not been beta'd. So please forgive all mistakes and of course Izzie and Mark belong to Shonda and ABC!) _

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_Epilogue_

He lay on his side, taking in the vision before him. Her golden hair was splayed over one of his pillows, trickling down over the side of her face with the soft morning sun washing her in an ethereal light, creating an enchanting picture. He watched as her silent puffs of breath would lift a blonde strand over her lips only to fall, the ends tickling her sensitive flesh. Her nose would twitch, yet she stayed deep in her slumber undisturbed.

She was a very heavy sleeper and if one happened to wake her before she was ready, one would need to run and take cover from the wrath of Izzie Stevens in the morning. His little ray of sunshine was unbelievably grouchy in the mornings, that is, until she had her first taste of her morning coffee. So, in the mornings, he would rise ten minutes before her, get the coffee going, and pour her a steaming cup of Joe and offer her a kiss.

It was a good way to start the day.

His eyes traveled to the alarm clock knowing that the alarm would go off soon. Softly rolling out of the bed, he got up, stretched his well rested muscles, and softly walked across the dimly lit room, only to muffle a curse caused by him stumping his toe against Izzie's overnight bag. Nudging it out of the way with his injured foot, he hobbled into the kitchen, to begin their morning ritual.

They had been dating exclusively for over ten months. It was one of the longest, no, correction, it _was_ the longest relationship he'd ever been in. And he was happy, uncontrollably happy. So happy, that he was sure his picture was plastered under the word "happy" in the dictionary.

He was in love with a woman that was like no other.

As he reached for the coffee, he couldn't believe how lucky he was to have the woman that was currently asleep in his bed in love with him. She was a contradiction of so many things, so unique, and just so perfect…perfect for him. She was bossy, strong-willed, hard-headed, and constantly kept him on his toes. While she could be a hard ass, she could also be the epitome of all things soft and good, flowery and pink. She was unbelievably feminine with a touch of tom boy in her. She was competitive yet gracious. She was also very opinionated and stuck by her beliefs.

There'd been many times where their clash of opinions had led to heated arguments. They would yell at one another and doors would slam. Yet she would never let a night pass without her telling him that she loved him, even if she was still angry at him.

It was after their first major fight, a month into their relationship, that he knew he would not be able to live without her. They had gotten into a fight over something stupid and pointless, but their tempers flared and words were slung. She left his home in a huff, claiming she didn't want to see or talk to him for the rest of the night. Yet fifteen minutes later his phone rang, and he answered it hearing her voice. He'll never forget the words she said to him, _"Even though I think you're dead wrong and I'm pissed as hell, I love you, you jackass,"_ and she hung up on him.

He knew then that she was the one.

He heard the beeping of the alarm and her moans of protest echo from his bedroom. He chuckled and grabbed her favorite mug from the cabinet. It was oversized, pink, and painted with purple and blue daisies. It stuck out like a sore thumb against his classic white dishes. He'd complained when she'd brought it over from Meredith's, but she'd simply stuck her tongue out at him, and told him that if wanted to have "fun sleepovers" with her then he'd have to deal with the pink mug with purple and white daisies.

He'd stopped complaining because Izzie was most definitely fun when they had their "sleepovers."

He turned towards the sound of shuffling feet and smiled at his girlfriend. She was wearing his New York Giants long sleeved shirt (which she fondly referred to as her favorite "shack shirt") and her white bunny slippers. He loved looking at her in the mornings, with her bed hair that he felt was undeniably sexy, face bare of makeup, and seeing her in one of his t-shirts.

He met her half-way with her morning coffee and kissed her on the forehead, receiving a gruff grunt as thanks. He walked back to the counter and sat down grabbing a banana. It was now her turn to take over their morning routine in making breakfast.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked her as he took a bite of his banana.

"Mm hmm. I did," she said as she walked over to his pantry. She turned around and grinned at him impishly. "I got a really good work out last night and I was just worn out, so I slept like a baby."

Mark winked at her. "That's good to hear. You know it's very important to include a good cardiovascular workout into your day."

"Oh, I do…I have an excellent aerobics instructor." She came back to the counter with her ingredients for their breakfast.

"I stumped my toe again on your overnight bag this morning," he said, wincing, as he looked down at his injured appendage.

"I'm sorry. I should have put it in a better place. I'll do that next time."

He watched her as she bent down to grab a mixing bowl and measuring cups. "Well, you know, if you would move in with me, I wouldn't have to worry about breaking any of my bones."

She cast him a look as she set her cooking utensils out on the island. "I told you, Mark. I'm not going to move in with you. I love living with Meredith and Alex—

"But you're hardly ever there. You spend at least five or six nights with me a week," he pointed out casually. They'd had this conversation a few times before. He understood her reasoning, even accepted it, but it didn't change his mind in trying to persuade her.

"Mark, you know I don't believe in living together. I'm an old fashioned kind of gal…"

He snorted at that, knowing that most old fashioned gals wouldn't have participated in their very risqué activities the night before. "But you pretty much live here!"

"No, I don't live here. I shack with you. I'm a shacker," she rolled his eyes at him. "Besides, I'm happy with our arrangement…" She paused as she opened the fridge to grab a carton of eggs and milk. "And did you know that people that cohabitate before marriage have a higher risk for divorce within the first five years?"

He cocked his eyebrow, knowing that by the tone of her voice, she was on a roll. So, he just sat back and enjoyed watching her state her case. She was sexy when she was making a point. Her eyes got a light in them, her eyebrows arched, and there was an energy to her that was just so appealing. He loved seeing her so passionate.

She sat the eggs and milk on the counter, and began to measure off the ingredients for the pancake mixture. "I don't believe in divorce…I know what divorce does to a person, just look at my mother. She's a shell of the woman that she used to be and it sucked having divorced parents. I mean, you know what that was like…your parents got divorced constantly. And look how it hurt you!" She grabbed the milk, measured it, and dumped it in the bowl, did the same with the oil, and then added the eggs. "I just don't ever want to go through that. When I get married…it's going to be for life."

His eyes followed her hand as she grabbed the whisk from the utensils drawer and wrapped it around the handle.

"What in the world…what is on this thing?" she asked in surprise as she pulled out the whisk from the drawer, the handle's smoothness having been disturbed. He watched her as she lifted the utensil to examine it. The look on her face changed from curiosity to shock. "Oh, my God…"

Mark got up and walked around the counter, to stand beside her. "Is something wrong with the whisk?"

She turned to him, her eyes large. "Um…um…"

He took the whisk from her limp grasp and examined it. "Oh, it's just this little thing right here…" He slid the foreign object of off the smooth stainless steel handle and lifted it to examine it in the light.

In between his fingers, he held a sparkling, brilliant cut diamond ring. He heard her gasp and turned to look at her, smiling. She looked at him with hope in her eyes.

"Is that…is that what I think it is?" She asked softly.

He propped his hip against the counter and held the diamond ring up so that it would catch the light. "You know, one of the things that I love about you, is how you stick to your beliefs. I know I've been asking you for the last few months to move in with me, and I know you kept saying 'no.' And at first, I was ok with it, thinking that you'd come around. But, then I really thought about it. I thought about all of your reasons for not moving in with me and I realized, I agree with them…"

He reached for her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers, and pulled her closer to him. "I love that your old fashioned and I love that you stuck to your guns, but I still want you to move in with me."

"Mark…" She said softly.

"But not as my girlfriend or as my fiancé, but as my wife. I've decided that I want to be an old-fashioned type of guy." He grabbed her left hand and dropped down to one knee. He looked up at her and saw tears trailing down her cheeks, her smile warm and hopeful. The love evident in her eyes gave him the courage to go on. "Isobel Stevens, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"YES! Oh, my goodness… yes, yes, yes!" She squealed, her voice thick with emotion.

He jumped to his feet and grabbed her, spinning her around in joy. With one word, she had made him the happiest man in the world. He was going to get to have this magnificent, smart, gorgeous intelligent woman as his bride.

He pulled her into a long and slow kiss. "I love you. I'm going to make you so happy, I swear it…"

She met his words with another kiss and he felt all of her emotions transferred through her kiss. "You've already made me the happiest woman in the world!" She resumed kissing him with light pecks, as she exclaimed, "I love you, I love you, I love you!"

He laughed softly, pulling her closer to him. "Do you like the ring? I designed it myself…" He watched her as she lifted her left hand to examine the ring on her finger for the first time and watched as her lips formed an "O". He laughed softly.

He looked down at the ring on her finger that he had created just for her. It was a three and a half carat cushion cut diamond set in a platinum setting, the mounting created with pave set diamonds. It was simple, elegant, yet brilliant and breathtaking. It was simply Izzie and the moment he had seen the engagement ring finished and ready to be worn, he new that it would look beautiful on his intended bride's finger, and he was right.

"You designed it? Mark, this is the most stunning thing I've ever seen," she said softly as she looked down at her engagement ring.

"It's not as stunning as you," he said as he took her hand in his own. "Do you have any idea how happy you've made me?"

She leaned forward and kissed him. "I'm going to keep making you happy till the day I die…"

She broke away from his grasp and looked at him. Noticing the change in her body language, he grew curious as to what thoughts were going through her mind, and knowing Izzie, they were probably unpredictable. "What is it, Izzie? Why are you looking at me like that?"

The look of disbelief changed in her eyes to one of excitement. "I'm going to be Mrs. Mark Sloane . . . Dr. Isobel Sloane!"

A feeling of pride spread through his veins hearing her say her future name. She wasn't going to keep her last name for professional reasons, or hyphenate their names. She was going to take his name, telling the world that she was _his wife._ He pulled her to him and claimed her mouth with his yet again. She was his. She was going to become his wife, and hopefully, one day, the mother of his children. She was his family, his future.

"Say it again," he said softly against her lips. "Say it."

He felt her body melted against him, as her lips found his. "Izzie Sloane. Dr. Isobel Sloane . . . Mrs. Mark Sloane, your wife. Sounds good, doesn't it?"

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard . . ." He kissed her once more before loosening his grip on her. "Do you know what I think we need to do?"

"No, what?" She asked him curiously.

Smiling at her slyly, he answered her. "I think we need to go and practice for the wedding night…you know, so we can make sure we have it down."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You mean you don't want my pancakes?"

Pulling her towards the bedroom that they would soon share as husband and wife, he grinned at her. "Baby, we've got our whole life ahead of us for your pancakes."

"But what about work? I've got rounds in an hour!"

He picked her up and flung her on the bed, and crawled on top of her. His fingers found her ticklish spot, behind her upper left leg and he sent her into squirming laughter. He loved to hear her laugh. "I got it all under control. We have the day off…"

She stopped squirming when he started kissing her behind her ear. He knew that was one of her other "spots," but not the ticklish kind.

"We do?" She moaned softly.

"We do . Did you really think I was going to let you work on the day of our engagement?" He asked as his fingers found the edge of her, well, _his_ t-shirt and began inching it up. "You really should learn to trust your future husband." He felt the muscles of her stomach flutter under his touch and he leaned down to leave a trail of kisses on her collar bone. "Maybe we should practice your wifely duties?"

Her bark of laughter resounded in the room as she pushed him off of her and climbed on top of him. "You, future husband, are a dork!" She gave him a passionate kiss, staking her claim on him, setting his senses on fire. Gentling the kiss, she looked at him and smiled, running her hands along his chest and abdomen. "But, you're _my_ dork."

"Yes, dear…" he said, closing his eyes at the feel of her hands on his skin. He was absolutely hers, body, soul, and heart. And it felt so damn good.


End file.
